Into the Guns

by William C. Dietz

  “No, really, I was.”

  “Was?”

  “Well, according to what I’ve been told, the president, which is to say Marilyn Wainwright, had a heart attack and died. And, since all of the officials who outranked me were killed, I’m the president.”

  Allston laughed. “That’s absurd. You’re delusional.”

  Sloan stopped, causing Allston to do likewise. He wanted the attorney to take him seriously. But how? Then he saw the building on the opposite side of the street and realized that the solution was waiting inside. “Can I call you Reggie?”

  “Everyone does.”

  “Good. Follow me, Reggie . . . I’m the President of the United States, and I can prove it.”

  The sign on the front of the building read, CARNEGIE MEMORIAL LIBRARY. Once inside, Sloan led Allston to the information desk, where a young woman with purple hair looked up at him. “How can I help you?”

  “Where are the periodicals located?”

  “Prior to the meteor strikes, most people went online to access periodicals,” the woman said, as if explaining the concept to a child.

  “But you have copies stored here, right?”

  “In some cases, yes.”

  “How about the New York Times?”

  “We have copies predating the meteor strikes if that’s what you mean . . . But the Times has been added to the proscribed list, so if the paper still exists, we won’t be able to obtain new copies.”

  “Proscribed list?” Allston demanded. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a list of publications that the state legislature considers to be counterproductive,” the librarian replied expressionlessly. Did she approve or disapprove? Sloan would have been willing to put money on the second possibility.

  “That’s censorship,” Allston said. “And it’s a violation of the First Amendment to the United States Constitution.”

  “You aren’t in the United States,” the woman countered. “You’re in the state of Louisiana.”

  Sloan was afraid that Allston was about to deliver another speech and hurried to cut him off. “Thanks for your help. Where can we access the periodicals that you still have?”

  The librarian pointed, and Sloan escorted Allston back through the stacks to a corner of the library. A sign said PERIODICALS, and four terminals were located immediately below it. “I appreciate what you did for me,” Allston said. “But I don’t have time for this.”

  “Five minutes,” Sloan said. “That’s all I need.”

  “Okay,” Allston said reluctantly. “Five minutes. Then I’m out of here.”

  Sloan sat down, worked his way through a menu, and selected “New York Times.” Then he entered a date. The article he wanted was on page one above the fold. “There,” Sloan said, as he stood. “Take a look.”

  Allston sat down. And there, right in front of him, was a photo of Sloan standing next to the President of the United States. The headline read: “New Secretary of Energy Sworn In.”

  Allston looked at Sloan and back to the screen. “Holy shit . . . It’s you!”

  “Yes, it is,” Sloan agreed. “And, assuming that all of the people who outranked me were killed, then I’m the president.”

  “Hell yes, you are,” Allston said enthusiastically, and hit PRINT. A printer began to whir, and Allston was there to receive five copies of the article as they slid into the tray. “Do you realize what this means?” he demanded. “We can prove who you are! And we can pull the country back together. That’s what you want, right?”

  “That’s what I want,” Sloan assured him. “I want to restore the government.”

  “Then I’m with you,” Allston assured him. “Come on . . . Let’s see what those bastards did to my uncle’s truck.”

  Sloan followed Allston past the reception desk and outside. Sirens could be heard, and greasy black smoke was spiraling up into the sky. And when the men rounded a corner, they could see that the pickup was on fire. The police were nowhere to be seen, but an aid unit was pulling away, and firemen were working to extinguish the flames. “Uh-oh,” Allston said, “Uncle Leo’s gonna be pissed. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “Where are we headed?” Sloan inquired, as they hurried away.

  “We’re going to rent a car,” Allston answered. “And drive it to Shreveport.”

  Sloan knew that Shreveport was to the north, so there was no reason to object. It took the better part of an hour to find a rental agency and complete the necessary paperwork, all the while wondering if someone would recognize Allston and refuse to serve him. No one did. The attorney had to pay half the fee in advance and used silver coins to do so. Sloan made a note to learn more about them later. As soon as they were in the car, Allston made his way onto Highway 171 and drove north. “We’re going to meet with some friends of mine,” Allston said. “They saw this day coming—and are ready to fight.”

  “Sounds good,” Sloan said. “Where are they?”

  “They’re going to meet at a location in the Ouachita National Forest,” Allston replied. “And I was planning to join them there. So,” he continued, “how did you wind up in Lake Charles?”

  Sloan told him about Mexico, about paddling north, and being held prisoner. And when it came to the meeting in Houston, Allston was incredulous. “So they knew who you were? Damn, that’s amazing. So what happened?”

  Allston listened intently as Sloan told him about jumping out of the Huey, stealing the boat, and making his way up the Intracoastal. Allston shook his head in amazement. “You are one persistent son of a bitch, Mr. President, and that’s a good thing.”

  The highway took them through Moss Bluff and Gillis before transforming itself into Highway 190. Then, just north of DeRidder, Highway 171 signs appeared again. From that point on, it was a straight shot up through Leesville and Mansfield to the city of Shreveport.

  But what should have been a three-hour trip was transformed into a four-hour pain in the ass, as Allston was forced to deal with a succession of military convoys all headed north. “Eyeball those markings,” Allston said, as they passed a column of olive drab trucks. “Do you notice anything?”

  “Yes, I do,” Sloan confirmed, as he eyed the wind-whipped Confederate flags that were flying from aerials, and the handwritten words on doors. They read, ARMY OF THE NEW CONFEDERACY. And the meaning was clear. At least some of the military had broken away and aligned itself with the South.

  “The bastards are moving quickly,” Allston observed.

  “Yes, they are,” Sloan agreed. Was it too late to catch up? The thought frightened him.

  They entered Shreveport half an hour later. “This is home sweet home,” Allston said. “I need to drop by my apartment—and you need everything. You only get one chance to make a first impression. That’s what my daddy told me—and you look like a bum. So we’re gonna go shopping. How ’bout it, Mr. President? Is that okay with you?”

  “Yes,” Sloan answered. “Thanks. I’ll pay you back.”

  “Good,” Allston replied. “I’d hate to sue the POTUS.” Both men laughed.

  Sloan had been to Shreveport once before but only briefly. He recognized the Regions Tower, however, if not the lesser buildings that surrounded it. Allston guided the car through the streets with the expertise of a native—and it wasn’t long before they entered an area called Country Club Hills. “This looks like a nice neighborhood,” Sloan observed. “What kind of law do you practice?”

  “Alternative Dispute Resolution.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means trying to resolve disputes through the use of mediation, arbitration, and old-fashioned common sense.”

  “And it pays well?”

  “Very well . . . And that’s why I can afford to pimp the president out. Or at least I think I can. Businesses won’t accept credit cards anymore, but I have a supply o
f new coin.”

  “New coin? What’s that?”

  “Look in the bottom of the cup holder . . . You’ll find some new coins in there.”

  The strange-looking coins were made of silver, and had the likeness of a man on both sides. No, as Sloan looked more closely, he realized that he was looking at the Libertarian icon Ayn Rand! A dyed-in-the-wool believer in the sort of free-market, laissez-faire capitalism that the fortunate few loved but would leave everyone else to beg on the streets.

  And sure enough, the words SECURITY THROUGH SELF-RELIANCE could be seen chasing each other around the rim of each coin. Sloan felt a rising sense of desperation. Huxton and his friends were issuing money, while the President of the United States was trying to make his way north. Sloan sighed. There was so much bullshit to counter and so little time to do it in.

  Allston’s home was located in an attractive five-story apartment building. We’ll have to leave the car out here,” the lawyer explained, as they pulled into visitor parking. “I have a single slot, and my car is in it.”

  “Your sports car.”

  “Damned right my sports car . . . And it’s a righteous ride. Come on.”

  Allston’s two-bedroom apartment was on the top floor and looked like an ad for Restoration Hardware. “Nice,” Sloan said, as they entered, “very nice. And you aren’t married.”

  Allston frowned. “How could you tell?”

  “Someone left a bra hanging on the telescope.”

  “Oh that,” Allston said dismissively. “It’s a good thing that Mom didn’t drop by. Okay, do what you need to do, and we’ll leave in ten.”

  It was thirty minutes later when they left. Allston chose to drive his BMW 2-series sports car rather than the rental car. It was dark by then, but the lights were on, and there was plenty of traffic. “Okay,” Allston said. “We’re headed for the mall, and if things go the way I hope they will, a lot of people are going to meet you during the coming months. And since you’re a farm boy, not to mention a man of the people, you should dress accordingly. That’s why we’re going to buy you a couple of ball caps, a barn coat, plaid shirts, Levi’s, and hiking boots. Some camping gear would come in handy, too, since we’ll have to hoof it up north.”

  They were inside the mall by then. The lights were on, but the crowd was thin. “Did you say ‘we’?” Sloan inquired.

  “I’m going with you,” Allston said.

  “What about the law practice, the apartment, and the BMW?”

  “Screw that stuff,” Allston replied. “Our country comes first.”

  Sloan stopped, forcing Allston to do likewise. The younger man had short hair, a high forehead, and wide-set eyes. Sloan extended his hand. “Thanks, Reggie. And congratulations.”

  Allston had a firm grip. “‘Congratulations’? For what?”

  “For being appointed Attorney General of the United States of America . . . That’s subject to confirmation of course—but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Allston grinned. “Momma’s gonna be proud.”

  After two hours of shopping, and dinner at a chain restaurant, they returned to the apartment. Allston pointed the way to the guest room. “Make yourself at home and grab some sleep. You may hear me going in and out. I have a lot to do, including stashing my personal records in a safe place.”

  “So you won’t be back?” Sloan inquired.

  “Not until we win the war,” Allston replied.

  “You think it will come to that?”

  “I think it’s under way,” Allston said.

  The foreboding words were still echoing through Sloan’s mind as he carried his new possessions into a nicely furnished guest room and set about the business of removing tags. Then it was time to pack everything he wouldn’t need the following day.

  After brushing his teeth, Sloan took a shower and went to bed. It was comfortable, and he was tired. Sleep claimed him. It was still dark when Sloan heard a knock on the door. “Get up, Mr. President,” Allston said from the hallway. “You have work to do.”

  Sloan rolled out of bed, entered the attached bathroom, and spent the next twenty minutes getting ready. It felt good to put on clean clothes. He was tying the laces on his boots when Allston entered. “Good morning . . . Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes. How ’bout you?”

  “It was tough saying good-bye to Mom. Fortunately, there’s plenty of family to look after her.”

  “Good,” Sloan said. “Did you tell her about the new job?”

  “Yes, but she doesn’t believe it. Hell, I don’t believe it.”

  “I know how you feel,” Sloan said as he hoisted the new backpack off the floor. “Let’s get going.”

  Rain was falling from a lead-gray sky, and the occasional clap of thunder could be heard off in the distance, as the men placed their packs in the Beemer’s tiny trunk. “What about the rental car?” Sloan wanted to know.

  “I told my uncle to come over and take care of it. And I gave him my furniture,” Allston replied. “He isn’t happy, mind you—but I hope to make it up to him later.”

  Allston departed Shreveport on Highway 3. It turned into 29 as it left Louisiana and entered Arkansas. They had breakfast at a restaurant in Bradley before making their way north through Lewisville to the town of Hope.

  After a pit stop, Allston followed I-30 up to Arkadelphia, where he left the interstate for Highway 8. “This will take us into the Ouachita National Forest,” he predicted. “And that’s where we’ll ditch the car.”

  Sloan looked over at him. “That’s gotta hurt.”

  Allston’s eyes were on the road. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Sloan nodded. “Got it.”

  Allston had a map, which he gave to Sloan. “X marks the spot, Mr. President. We’ll walk from there.”

  Sloan looked up from the map to the rain-smeared windshield. There were forests of oak trees, the occasional glimpse of a lake, and streams that flowed under the highway. About ten minutes passed before Sloan spotted what he was looking for. “There it is,” he said. “Walker Road. That’s where we turn right.”

  Allston made the turn, and Sloan eyed the map. “Watch the odometer,” he advised. “We’re supposed to drive for ten miles and turn off onto a road marked by a large boulder.”

  “Got it,” Allston replied. The gravel road forced him to keep the speed down, but it wasn’t long before they hit the ten-mile mark and saw a garage-sized boulder up ahead. And there, what looked like a wide path led off into the woods.

  Allston turned onto it but the BMW had very little ground clearance, and it wasn’t long before he had to pull over and park. “This is as far as we can go,” he announced. “Everyone out.”

  Once the trunk was open, Sloan got into the rain gear acquired the day before. Then he shouldered a pack. Allston did likewise. “I left the doors unlocked and the key in the ignition,” he said. “Who knows what the authorities will make of that.”

  The next two hours were spent following trails that frequently split into more trails, forcing Sloan to repeatedly consult the hand-drawn map. Was it accurate? He hoped so because they were wasting a lot of time and effort if it wasn’t.

  In spite of the rainy weather, others were out and about as well. Because according to the calendar, it was summer and time to go camping. Something the locals were determined to do regardless of the circumstances. The men exchanged greetings with other hikers as they continued to follow a succession of well-trod paths in a generally northeasterly direction.

  The terrain, which had been flat to begin with, began to slope upwards as time passed. And Sloan could see a mountaintop ahead. Unlike most ranges in the United States, the Ouachitas ran east and west instead of north and south.

  At one point, the Ouachitas had been as tall as the Rockies. But erosion had taken a toll over thousands of y
ears, and once-craggy peaks had been reduced to softly rounded summits. And that’s what Sloan could see in the distance.

  As they followed the map off a well-established trail, and up through stands of red, black, and white oak trees, Sloan saw some loblolly pines to one side, flanked by native shrubs. Sloan had begun to feel the climb by then. His breath came in gasps, his shoulders ached from the weight of the pack, and his boots felt as if they were made of lead. Allston was suffering, too. “How much farther?” he inquired, as they paused to rest.

  Sloan consulted the map. “See the rockslide? And the cliff beyond? The cave is located at its base. Assuming we’re in the right place.”

  “I hope we are,” Allston said fervently. “Let’s get moving.”

  It took a long time to negotiate the rockslide. The scree was loose and had a tendency to slide, which forced the men to scramble. So a climb that should have taken half an hour lasted twice that long. But, eventually, they arrived at the top of the slope, where a cluster of pines marked the base of the cliff. “We’re there,” Sloan announced. “Or we should be. Come on.”

  As Sloan led the way to the pines, he felt as if something, or someone, was watching him. And sure enough, when he looked up, Sloan saw an eagle circling above. “Put your hands on your head,” a voice said. “And turn around.”

  The sentry had been hidden behind a pile of boulders. He was a middle-aged man with wire-rimmed glasses and an AR-15. It was aimed at Sloan and wavered slightly. “Don’t shoot him,” Allston said as he arrived. “He’s one of us.”

  As the man turned to look at Allston, the assault rifle turned with him. That gave Sloan the perfect opportunity to pull the Glock and fire. And that, he realized, was the problem with a volunteer military force. Especially if they had to fight trained soldiers like the ones who’d gone over to the New Confederacy. “Reggie!” the man said enthusiastically. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Likewise,” Allston replied. “Sam . . . This is Frank Garrison. He’s a gentleman farmer, a cutthroat bridge player, and a stamp collector. And that’s why he wants to reconstitute the government. So there will be new stamps.”