by J. F. Krause
(One thing I can say about the people of Bloomington is that I have seldom heard them use pejoratives. I’m not just talking about the ugly words used to demean women, but also the words that demean anyone. Everyone here has heard first hand what happened to the men and women of Indianapolis at the hands of the Hawkins Gang. And while I have never seen a gentler group of women and men, that first hand knowledge is the reason why there will never be a trial held in Bloomington for the Hawkins Gang.)
On the very first night Kerry was gang raped, and all the while she was slapped and punched. This went on more or less continuously over the next two days. Then, one morning, the man who had raped her all night long as she was chained to the bed, decided she wasn’t obedient, or maybe it was she wasn’t appreciative enough for his inflated ego, so he beat her into unconsciousness. Even as she was relating the story to me well over a month later, I could still see the swelling where he had cracked her jaw. Her left eye was still blood shot from being beaten so badly that it was swollen shut for days after. She had been a pretty girl and would be again, but right at that moment, she had a cold, faraway look as she described the beating that told me she would remember this experience in her nightmares for a long time to come. Still, the act of telling me about her experience seemed to be part of her healing process. Kerry Ramsey was a strong young woman and nothing would change that, not even this.
The gang member who beat her thought he had killed her and turned her over to one of the guards on duty for disposal. When Hawkins found out what he had done to her, he was furious. It wasn’t a matter of compassion for an innocent woman being murdered, or almost murdered, in such a monstrous way. It was the waste of a good sex toy. Kerry was just lucid enough to know that she was being talked about and that Hawkins was berating her attacker. She still remembered the phrase Hawkins used, “Bitches don’t grow on trees”. That was when she was handed over to one of the captive Indiana men who was told to take care of her. A couple of her teeth were very loose, and the man was a dentist. She remembered very little over the next few hours, but she remembered his kindness and how he argued with the guard who was assigned to accompany them to a dentist’s office just a block or so away. As she began to wake up, she realized her caregiver was planning to escape with her, and she forced herself to listen to what was going on between the two men. When the guard finally decided he didn’t want to watch the dentist working on her teeth and face and left the room, the dentist casually put a broom through the door handles effectively locking the guard on the other side of the door. Then, they quietly and calmly walked out the back door and down the street to freedom.
Very soon, after they had walked only a block or so, they were intercepted by a group of scouts from the Indiana survivors who were converging on the Hawkins occupied Centennial Center district of downtown Indianapolis. She was a mess but managed to tell them everything she could about where and how the women and girls were being held and treated. A few days later, when the attack on the Hawkins Gang began by the Coalition, Kerry was able to go with them to the Hotel where she waited to reassure the newly liberated victims that they were finally in safe hands.
Unfortunately, most of the women had been treated almost as badly as Kerry, and in some cases, the rescue had come just barely in time. The doctors who thought they were there to take care of Coalition militia wounded realized they were there first and foremost for the women who had been abused to such a horrible extent.
I spent most of my time talking to the women and girls about their experiences at the hands of the gang, but I also talked with a few men. One teenaged boy had a particularly good vantage point to the plight of the men and some of the women. Like Kerry, Troy Spitz, a 16 year-old boy who could easily pass for 13 or 14 years old, was taken prisoner during the first hour or so. While a few people were able to escape when they saw what was happening, Troy was working at a computer when the gang burst in and demanded that he and all of the other teenaged boys and girls come into the lobby of the city hall. The girls were quickly led away and the men and boys were lined up and marched to the city jail just a short walk down the street. Most of the city offices were located in one of the buildings around Centennial center so while the women went to the left toward the Sandoval Hotel, the men were taken to holding cells at the jail. Because Troy and some of the other high school age boys looked so young, they were taken to one of the cells previously used to hold prisoners as they were being processed into the jail. The older and stronger looking men were taken behind a large, heavy set of closed doors into the more secure and longer-term cells. Troy, and his new acquaintances, Brad Ridley, aged 13, and David Carmichael, also aged 13, were quickly patted down and shoved into their cell where they had a perfect view of everything being said and done by their guards. Their guards didn’t bother restraining them thinking them mere boys and therefore no threat. Troy was wearing a hoody when he was captured, and that’s where he kept his cell phone. As soon as he could, he took the phone out of his hood and silenced it so he could start taking pictures of what was going on. Shortly, the guards began bringing the older men in to be questioned. If they didn’t have a useful occupation and they looked too old to work, they were sent through a doorway to the right that was always open so the boys could see what was going on. Once inside the room the guards opened a door to a stairway down to a loading dock. As the older men who had been judged to be of no value as slave labor were shoved forward to the top of the stairs, they were quickly shot in the back of the head and their bodies were sent tumbling to the bottom of the stairs. After the first man was executed, the men to follow could, no doubt, hear the shots and see the bodies of the men who were executed before them. Some froze, some started to argue, others tried to flee, but all of them were shot and killed, one by one with a bullet to the back of their heads. All in all, the gang killed 7 men this way. What a brutal waste of all those years of experience and wisdom!
Those men judged strong enough or with a skill that could be used by the Hawkins Gang were sent to the left into a room large enough to hold the remaining thirty-five or so men. At last, it was time for the boys themselves to go through the selection process. They were all rather fragile looking boys and they expected the worst, but they were simply waived through to the room with the larger, stronger men and older boys. There they were given mops, buckets of water with disinfectant and told to clean up where the older men had been shot. After that, they were taken to the hotel where the men, who were now hobbled by leg irons, were extracting dead bodies from hotel and conference rooms. It was their job to disinfect everything after the bodies were removed and piled into waiting trucks out on the street.
At the end of the day, everyone was taken to the river where the guards directed the shackled men and boys, including the three younger boys, to throw the bodies off a bridge. The guards looked uncomfortable and urged everyone to hurry, so the three unshackled boys decided that the guards were out of their safe zone near the hotel. Once they were back at the jail, the chained men were taken back into the jail cells behind the heavy set of doors, and the three boys were once again left in the holding cell at the front. The guards locked them in, tossed them some easy open soup containers, turned out the lights and left. In the dark, Troy uploaded his smart phone pictures to the internet for retrieval later. He had recorded some of the conversation between the guards as well. Then he and the other two boys planned their escape.
The next day was just the same as the first day. The Sandoval was a large hotel and clearing it of dead bodies was taking some time. By the end of the day, they were finally starting to clear some of the other areas of Centennial Center. Then as it grew dark, the captive men and their guards went back to the bridge for body disposal. That’s when the boys made their break. They quickly ran to the other side of the bridge and kept on going. The guards actually fired at them, but they were too afraid themselves to go running after them in the unsecured territory on the other side of the river.
Th
e local Indiana men and women had been watching and had decided that if the guards came back to the bridge for body disposal, they planned to ambush the guards and liberate their prisoners. Unfortunately, when the boys ran off, it spooked the guards so badly that they quickly loaded the prisoners up and beat a hasty retreat back to the jail, truckloads of bodies and all.
The boys, all three, proved their bravery and value to the Coalition Militia and the Indiana Volunteers when it came time to attack. Troy led his group of Coalition soldiers all the way up to the penthouse floor of the hotel demonstrating his amazing courage throughout. When it came time for him to testify, his smart phone photos and short films were invaluable to the prosecution. He clearly and succinctly provided the narrative that pinned virtually every gang member in his place in this latest rendition of man’s inhuman treatment of his fellow man.
April 8
This last week was a very busy one. I barely had time to finish my interviews, some for a second and even third time, and it was time for the start of the trial in Bloomington. Just as we expected, the defense team, led by a Harvard trained woman named Emily Wong, asked for a change of venue. They didn’t mention Panhandle, which was wise since Panhandle had made clear that they didn’t want it. Panhandle had, however, asked that an observer from there be permitted to attend the trial. I’ve had several conversations with Panhandle’s observer, a former CPA from Madison, Wisconsin named Robert Nelson. We met for the first time a few days ago, and since then I’ve had a couple meals with him. Carl was with me the first time we met, but it was oil and water instantly. Evidently, Robert doesn’t like Jews, and Carl wears a yarmulke. It was an icy dinner, but I wanted to know as much about the Panhandle as possible so I persevered. After a while, Carl, who realized that Robert didn’t recognize that I was Jewish, too, and fully understood that we really do need to understand what the Panhandle is all about, took his leave. With Carl out of the picture, Robert and I were able to talk more freely. As I suspected, his dislike of Jews was just the tip of the iceberg.
Panhandle has over four hundred people now, including teachers, a doctor, farmers, and an engineer or two. They are still attracting people to their main settlement in Guymon, but what once looked like a steady stream has now dwindled to a trickle. Originally, there were several local survivors in the Panhandle, in addition to Roger Sayers, the founder of the group. After Roger started broadcasting, first by HAM and later by internet and radio, asking for white men and women to stand up for America, and after people began arriving, Roger was very blunt with the other survivors in the area: “Get with the plan or leave”. They left for the Amarillo community. A couple of the women refugees had become guardians of two of the children, and after a bit of a standoff, they were allowed to take their wards to Amarillo.
There were still a few children in the Panhandle, and Bobby made it very clear that they needed a school in order to have guardianship over children. The Panhandle reluctantly produced a teacher, saying it was none of our business. Then, when the Panhandle refugees began telling everyone what was going on because it wasn’t just about white people getting together to have their own segregated community, Bobby insisted that any orphaned children under 18 who were not related to one of the members of the community would have be turned over to the Amarillo community. There was a nasty standoff for a couple of days. By that time, Roger knew Bobby was gay, and he was furious that “that little faggot” wanted to take these innocent children away from the good people of the Panhandle.
We also had completed the business of taking back Indianapolis, so Bobby, with the support of the Coalition, gave them a deadline to comply. Bobby had just barely recovered from his injury and actually flew off to Amarillo to meet with Travis Johnson, the leader of the community there. Marco, Carl, and I accompanied him, and the Coalition was fully prepared to do what it had to do to remove the minors from the Panhandle. Travis took over the direct communication with Roger, and Travis made it clear that he was in complete agreement with Bobby and the Coalition. Faced with Travis’ insistence that the minors without actual family ties to someone in Panhandle would have to be turned over, Roger agreed to all demands.
I think that it was about that time that Roger realized that Panhandle was never going to be a major power in the region and that the training of future engineers, doctors, and mechanics would take place without them, so, if he wanted any kind of future for his community, he’d better learn to play nice with his neighbors. But he’s never forgiven Bobby, or Travis for that matter.
Travis led a group of Amarillo’s defense force up to Guymon and collected the minors. It turned out that several adults wanted to leave as well. Roger was a bit more of a dictator than they bargained for. Now, no unrelated minors are allowed to enter Panhandle to settle, period. Unfortunately, there are a few minors with blood ties to some of the “immigrants”, and while the Coalition has claimed the right to protect and defend all orphaned minors within our ‘sphere of influence’, we don’t separate any children from blood or legal relatives.
I already knew much of the back-story from the reports Travis and Bobby made back to the Council. Robert Nelson’s narrative was a bit different from the one I’d already heard. Nevertheless, it was interesting to hear both sides of that particular incident. Robert Nelson is one of Roger’s closest advisors and an ardent supporter of making Panhandle a haven for whites in an increasingly diverse and integrated world. As soon as Carl left, Robert blatantly told me that Carl and his kind would be the end of civilization as we know it. I wanted to say “News Flash! Civilization as we know it has already ended!” But I didn’t, I just listened, fascinated by what I was hearing.
Since I’m blue-eyed and tall, it never struck him that I might not be a potential recruit to his cause. Carl is a cute little brown-eyed man who is easily three inches shorter than I am. He wears his yarmulke, I suspect, mostly to hide his little bald spot. No, that’s not really fair of me. He’s a Conservative Jew, and I’m Reform.
Carl makes me laugh in ways I never thought I could after the sickness. Cynthia and I were at school and work, respectively, when the announcement came to go home and stay there until further notice. Cynthia was only a few blocks away from home at the time and was there quickly. I was at my office getting ready to leave when one of my assistants literally collapsed beside me in the lobby. Of course, the few of us remaining rushed to her, but she was moaning and then regurgitating so violently we all quickly stood up and stepped back and just gaped at her as she writhed around on the slate floor of the lobby. Then, just as we all stepped in to help her, the whole thing started again. We all stepped back again just as we had earlier. I ran back to my desk to get a cloth that I could use to wipe her face, but before I could get back, my office partner was holding his head and starting to weave around on his feet. I ran to him and settled him into a chair only to have to step back as he, too, started to vomit. I remember the only other person still standing other than myself was screaming and running for the door. For the next few minutes I stayed there in the lobby trying to do what I could. 911 didn’t pick up, and I guessed this was what the government was talking about when we were told to go home and avoid contact. I realized that now, I was fully contaminated. I debated going home but didn’t want to bring the illness home to Cynthia. So I went back to my office and tried calling Cynthia. The phone told me all systems were busy and to try again later. I waited for several hours, and then my own cell phone rang. It was Cynthia and she was home. She’d been trying to call me all day. As she talked I learned that she had been with some classmates when one of them collapsed with the same symptoms as I had seen in my office. Since we were both contaminated anyway, I decided to come home so we could be together when it happened. Of course, it didn’t happen to either of us, and we survived.
Now, less than three months later, I’m here, in Bloomington, having dinner with an anti-Semite. The rest of his iceberg is that he’s also a racist, misogynistic, anti-Catholic, homophobic, whit
e supremacist. And I think he’s flirting with me. He’s tall, blond, blue-eyed and athletic. Carl is so much better looking.
The trial in Bloomington was over almost before it had a chance to begin. Within the first few minutes, the defense asked for a change of venue to Chicago. I like Chicago, but with all the music events and concerts every night, Bloomington is a great place to visit right now. We adjourned and will begin jury selection next week in Chicago. One of the new realities can easily be seen in the jury selection process. I’m told that people in Chicago actually want to be on the jury now. It’s the best show in town.
The jury will be sequestered and so will the witnesses. Hopefully, this won’t last long. Some of the girls really just want to be home in Bloomington. I don’t blame them, but we have to be very careful to be fair in this whole process. On the other hand, we don’t want any of these animals to walk free at the end of all this. I’m fair; just ask me!
Just before we left for Chicago, I had another chance to dine with Robert Nelson. Over dinner he told me about his life in Madison. His wife and children all died in the sickness. That alone would be enough to leave someone changed for life, but Robert was really into the whole white supremacist thing long before the sickness. He’s convinced the sickness was unleashed on the world by some sort of Jewish cabal that wanted to rule the world. He thinks Bobby is a secret Jew who chose to be gay. I don’t know what Bobby is, but he’s certainly not Jewish. He’s not even circumcised. (As one of the first people to reach Bobby when he was shot, I found that out when he was lying unconscious on the sidewalk. I’m a Jewish woman; I notice these things.)
