by James Hunt
Brooke picked her phone up. There were at least sixty messages, but she scrolled up to the newest one she'd received.
“They're exiling the Southwest. Get out as fast as you can. Stay safe. I love you.”
Even if Brooke made it through the desert, past the new border patrol, and somehow navigated her way through the rest of the states undetected and made it to North Carolina unscathed, she would be sent back on the first available flight. She responded to Amy's last text, unsure of how long communications would be back up and running.
“We're okay. On our way to North Carolina now. I'll call you as soon as I can.”
How could they do this? How could Congress pass something like that? But she knew exactly how. There were deals made to ensure the few that were in power remained safe and secure. She was sure that there were plenty of top officials the president had failed to mention who would be above the law, beyond the repercussions of the decisions made.
“This was not an easy decision to arrive at, but sometimes the hardest decisions are the ones we must make. To all the former citizens remaining in the Southwest, remember that you hold your destiny in your own hands. I know that you will find the courage and ingenuity to live on without citizenship in the United States. Form your own legislation and laws, but above all, keep each other safe. God bless us, and God bless the new United States of America.”
The radio squawked static and then was silent. Emily didn't understand, John looked afraid, and Brooke wore a face of anger.
Her country had just sentenced them to death. Now it wasn't just a race against running out of water, it was a race against every other person in the region. The moment the president signed that new bill into law was the moment this region became lawless. There were no rules, no courts, and no consequences.
Brooke and her family were stuck in the middle of the desert, surrounded on all sides by people looking for food, water, and transportation. Looking for whatever was left to survive. Looking for exactly what she and her family had. The world had just changed with the stroke of a pen, but she knew there would be people out there like her who could do some good.
Brooke checked the phone, but the one bar that her phone had displayed during the broadcast had disappeared. The authorities must have opened up the communication channels just for the announcement.
“Mom, what are we going to do?” John asked.
She looked back over to her children. Emily held onto John's arm, her eyes wide with terror.
“Are we still going to see Aunt Amy?” Emily asked.
This couldn't stand. People would fight it, and she would be one of them.
“Yes,” Brooke said. “We start tomorrow.”
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story!
Writing has always been a passion of mine and it’s incredibly gratifying and rewarding whenever you give me an opportunity to let you escape from your everyday surroundings and entertain the world that is your imagination.
As an indie author, Amazon reviews can have a huge impact on my livelihood. So if you enjoyed the story please leave a review letting me and the rest of the digital world know. And if there was anything you found troubling, please email me. Your feedback helps improve my work, and allows me to continue writing stories that will promise to thrill and excite in the future. But be sure to exclude any spoilers.
I would love if you could take a second to leave a review: Click here to leave a review on Amazon!
Again, thank you so much for letting me into your world. I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did writing it!
Take care,
James Hunt
Exiled: No Borders
Chapter 1
Congressman Jones stood in the back corner of the Oval Office, watching the television crew set up the camera for the president's address. His curled smile had seemed permanently glued to his face ever since his legislation made it through earlier in the day.
Jones had conceived Bill HR 395150 more than four years ago, but it had been too radical to introduce then, so he waited. Patiently. The crisis with the Colorado River running dry was the perfect platform to launch it. Everything was starting to line up.
The bill represented the first step toward his ultimate goal. The puppets around him had no idea of its underlying purpose. All it represented to them was a way to save their own skins.
Standing there in the Oval Office, the most powerful room in the world, he felt invincible. Nothing could stop him now. Not armies or nations or politicians. No one.
The lights flashed on as the president entered, surrounded by his advisers, on the opposite side of the room from where Jones stood. He made his way around, shaking hands, thanking some key Capitol Hill constituents, until finally he was face to face with Jones.
“Congressman Jones,” the president said, extending his hand.
“Sir.”
“I think we all owe you a debt of gratitude for saving this country. Your timely action and political reach have ensured our nation will survive.”
“It was an honor to provide our people with resolution in this time of crisis, sir.”
The president leaned in to Jones’s ear. He kept his voice low. “What about our little problem of the troops that stayed behind? I heard there was some conflict?”
“We ran into a few issues, but I’m working on cleaning that up.”
The president leaned back and patted Jones on the shoulder wholeheartedly, like he’d just heard a good joke.
“Why don't you join me during the address? Tammy, you think we can find a spot up there for the Congressman?”
“Of course, Mr. President,” Tammy said.
The heat under the lamps was intense. The sweat beading on Jones’s forehead caused him to wipe it repeatedly, which reminded him of the sweltering, humid summers in Alabama. The sun would scorch him every day during his chores on the farm. He detested the heat, along with the town.
But that small rural community where he had grown up no longer existed. A sign of the times and dwindling resources, and also his sway with the resource committee to pull the town's funding.
Tammy switched a few of the men and women around the president to ensure a well-balanced picture. There was a perfect blend of conservatives and liberals—Republicans and Democrats—behind the president.
Jones knew why. His bill changed the structure of the country. It was a radical move. One that required the American people to know that the different sectors of government stood united behind the new piece of legislation.
Of course, it had to be faces the people could recognize and trust. There was Jones, a twelve-term congressman from the heart of the nation's south, who had worked his way to the top; Congresswoman Ford from Ohio, who had dedicated her life to the continued advancement of women’s rights; Attorney General Marcus Cobb, who was a vocal advocate of the American people's civil rights (as long as it didn't interfere with his delicate network of politicians and big business); Vice President Johnson, who made sure to attend church every Sunday; and Senator Harris, who was the self-made billionaire turned public servant.
The perfectly orchestrated crowd was set to ease the nation's worries. Jones knew the dangers ahead, but people cowered at the sight of their own shadows these days. And those cowering figures gave him confidence.
People could talk about their values and beliefs until they were blue in the face, but the fact was that when push came to shove, people would save themselves over others—the powerful “public servant” crowd around him not excluded. The allure of lavish lifestyles and power had them all intoxicated. Jones only needed to push a little further.
“Mr. President, we're live in ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five,” the camera man said then extended his fingers in the air to continue the countdown silently.
Once the cameraman's finger hit one, he pointed to the president, and Jones watched the small red dot on the camera flick on, signaling they were live on air.
***<
br />
White molding cut through the small spaces between the yellow kitchen tile that peppered the wall under the cabinets and around the sink. Ms. Fletcher turned the faucet on and watched the usage meter above the sink count the volume of water pouring into her glass. Once the gauge read eight ounces, she shut it off. The system automatically updated, registering the gallons of water she had left based off her weekly rations. She fanned herself and pressed the side of the glass to her head, attempting to cool the beads of sweat forming on her temple.
A solid ring of sweat circled the top of her blouse, and she tried peeling the clinging fabric off her as she walked to the living room. She passed the thermostat on her way out of the kitchen and only briefly glanced at the one-hundred-and-one-degree temperature.
When Ms. Fletcher turned on the television, the signal was scrambled. None of the channels worked. It had been like that since the declaration of martial law earlier in the day when reports of the Colorado River crisis surfaced.
The elementary school she worked at was a madhouse after the announcement. Parents demanded to pull their children, even though the authorities told them that help and answers would arrive before the end of the day.
And from what Ms. Fletcher could tell, that was true. On her way home from school that afternoon, she could see the heightened police presence in the area, which she was thankful for after witnessing the mess she’d had to deal with at work.
People were overreacting. They were letting fear get the better of them. She knew there was a process in which these things happened and had faith in her government to fix the problem. She repeated her assurances to herself every few minutes to ease her ever-increasing nerves.
Ms. Fletcher reclined in her flower-printed armchair and picked up a worn paperback book from the stand next to her. The living room around her, like the rest of the house, was modest. However, since she was a teacher for the public school board, she was allowed more rations than other citizens. She would have liked a better neighborhood in San Diego, but it could have been worse.
As she flipped through the pages of her novel, the television descrambled, and the image of the president, surrounded by politicians, appeared on the screen.
“My fellow Americans, I speak to you this evening with a heavy heart. Earlier today I informed the nation about the continuing water crisis in the Southwest. Reports confirmed that the Colorado Basin, which provides fresh water to most of California, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada, Utah, and Colorado, had finally run dry. All of my attention today has been directed toward coming up with solutions that benefit not just the Southwest, but the entire country.”
Ms. Fletcher snapped the book shut. She turned her reading lamp off, casting the living room into darkness. The glow of the television illuminated her apprehensive expression at hearing the president's words.
“Upon hearing the news of civil unrest in the Southwest, I deployed forces to major cities, establishing martial law to insure that civility and order were maintained during this difficult time. However, the Southwest isn't the only portion of the country suffering from water shortages. The natural resources of our nation are dwindling drastically. It is because of this that Congress proposed a new but radical bill to ensure our great nation continues to survive.”
It was probably nothing more than further restrictions, but Ms. Fletcher wondered where they would pull the water resources from. Northern California must still have some water reserves coming from the Northwest.
“The states of California, Nevada, Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico are henceforth no longer a part of the United States of America. The new western border of the United States will run along the current borders of Texas, Oklahoma, Colorado, and Wyoming then run up into Idaho and Oregon. All authorities have been notified of this bill, which was passed in both the House and the Senate, and which I signed into law just moments ago.”
The book fell from Ms. Fletcher's lap and onto the floor as she rose from her chair. She shuffled forward in shock from what the president had just said. The president she had voted for.
“Patrols have already begun along the border, and any man, woman, or child from these former states that tries to cross into the United States will be considered an illegal immigrant and deported back across our western border. Furthermore, any citizens within our new borders that try and traffic any man, woman, or child from these now-banned territories will be punished to the full extent of the law.”
This can’t be happening. They can’t do this. This isn’t right. This isn’t legal. This isn’t fair!
“This was not an easy decision to arrive at, but sometimes the hardest decisions are the ones we must make. To all the former citizens remaining in the Southwest, remember that you hold your destiny in your own hands. I know that you will find the courage and ingenuity to live on. Form your own legislation and laws, but above all, keep each other safe. God bless us, and God bless the new United States of America.”
The president's image remained on the screen for a few more moments then disappeared. The scrambled lines returned.
Ms. Fletcher stood there slack jawed. Her silhouette was barely visible in the darkness of the living room. Then, outside her window, somewhere in the night, gunshots sounded. She clutched her chest, startled at the foreign noise.
She withdrew further into the darkness of her house. They can’t just abandon us like this, could they? There must be someone doing something right now to fix it, right?
More gunshots fired outside. She backed into the wall of her living room. Her fingers clawed at the plaster behind her. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. The government was supposed to help her in times of crisis. It was their duty. It was their job.
***
The crowds around a storefront in downtown San Diego watched the president's speech and lingered there for a few moments on the sidewalk after it was over. Some people shrugged and walked away, others started crying, but a few picked up rocks along the street.
They grasped the pieces of stone firmly in hands that swung back and forth in a violent cadence. Their footsteps got louder as they ran to the storefronts and the cars that lined the road. Greedy eyes looked longingly at the goods through the windows of the stores.
Finally, the first crash of glass broke the silence of the night, followed by hurried boots that crunched over the shards of glass on the ground. Sporadic echoes of similar crashes reverberated through the streets. Then, just as a thunderstorm starts with a only a few drops, a hail of stones, pipes, and fists rained upon downtown San Diego as the crowds morphed from spectators to participants in the frenzied rush of panic.
Shouts and screams filled the streets. They were cries of anger and fear, pierced with sharp howls of pain. The police in the area half-heartedly tried to control the crowds, but they too were now exiled members of a country that had abandoned them with no prospects of help.
There was no longer order, laws, or rules. Everything was about survival now, and that's what the people in downtown San Diego repeated in their minds after every smashed window, stolen good, and punch they threw. I'm doing it to survive.
***
Smoke snaked its way up from the tip of the cigar loitering in General Gallo's hand. He brought it to his lips, inhaling the smoke as his cheeks puffed in and out.
“It looks like our congressman pulled it off,” Gallo said.
The general was surrounded by his officers. All of them turned to him with eager twitches. This was what they had been waiting for. It was time to strike.
“Our men are ready, General,” Colonel Herrera said.
“Patience, Colonel,” Gallo replied.
Gallo's eyelids were half closed as he peered through the wafts of smoke at his men. He ashed the tip of his cigar, and it crumbled to the stone floor.
“We'll let the Americans pull themselves apart, then when they're weak and tired, that's when we crush them. We are about to regain a part of Mexico's powerful heritage. Our nation has waited over one
hundred fifty years for this. We can hold for a few more days,” Gallo said.
The men nodded, leaving Gallo alone in his office. Photographs lined the walls. The pictures of the men with Gallo included top Mexican officials, his family and estate, and an 1840 map of Mexico which stretched well into California, Nevada, and Utah. His eyes fell to the area of the map that was now Texas with a gaze that could have set it on fire. He took another drag from his cigar then rested it on an ashtray. The tip smoldered.
Gallo reached for his phone and dialed a number he knew by heart. There were a few rings and then a friendly secretary greeted him. “Gallo,” he said.
That was all the introduction he needed to utter. The phone rang again, and the general was greeted by a man's voice speaking at a low volume.
“I thought we agreed no contact until next week, General,” Jones said.
