Rockabilly Limbo

by William W. Johnstone

  Cole shook the camp awake and everybody gathered around the portable radio.

  “... the newly sworn-in President was immediately put under a heavy security blanket and whisked away, his vehicle surrounded and escorted by tanks and Bradley Fighting Vehicles. He was taken to Andrews Air Force Base, and there he will attempt to pull together this battered nation.

  “Turning to local news, the Tennessee Volunteer Militia has now taken over the duties of law enforcement throughout the state. The militia, headed by General Ely Worthingham, has sworn a fast return to law and order and obedience to God’s word . . .”

  “General Ely Worthingham?” Hank said. “You think that’s the same Ely we met?”

  “Has to be,” Katti said. “This is turning into a nightmare.”

  “In Technicolor,” Ruth added.

  “... Until just last week,” the announcer said, “the Tennessee Volunteer Militia was headed by Col. Bob Robbins. Colonel Robbins was stripped of his rank and placed under arrest by members loyal to General Worthingham after a bloody coup within the ranks of the militia. Colonel Robbins escaped from custody and is believed to be in hiding, along with about a dozen of his followers, somewhere in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. General Worthingham has ordered Robbins to be shot on sight. Shortly after his arrest, Robbins said that Ely Worthingham was a screaming nut and should be committed to the nearest mental institution for the good of the country . . .”

  “I like this Colonel Robbins even before meeting him,” Gary said.

  “Me, too,” Hank said. “I’m telling you all now, this Ely Worthingham is a dangerous man. The problem is, millions of people will follow his kind of nutty philosophy.”

  “I can believe that,” James Mercer said. “Millions of people put liberals in office for forty years and damn near bankrupted the nation.”

  “I know Colonel Robbins,” Jim called from the edge of the clearing, where he could keep a watch on the road below and still hear the newscast. “I’ve known him for years. He’s not nearly as radical as the press painted him. He’s really a pretty decent guy.”

  “Would he swing in on our side?” Cole asked.

  “In a heartbeat. He’s not one of these New World Order conspiracy people. He’s just a conservative-minded person who didn’t like the direction America was going.”

  “I’d like to meet him. But it’s a damn big park.”

  Jim smiled. “Not as big as you think, ol’ buddy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bob Robbins is here. Right behind you at the edge of the clearing. Listening to every word we say. Just turn around and introduce yourself.”

  Two

  Cole stood up, turning as he did. The man who stood at the edge of the clearing smiling at him was about fifty, Cole guessed. Stocky build, a shade under six feet, with iron gray hair. The four men and two women with him, spread out on both sides of the man, were very capable-looking, and all carried either AR-15s or Mini-14s.

  “Hello, Jim,” Bob Robbins said.

  “Bob,” Jim acknowledged. He pointed to Cole. “This is Cole Younger.”

  “Really?” Bob asked, a smile playing at his lips.

  “Really,” Cole said. “You and your people are pretty good, Mr. Robbins. I set those trip wires around our perimeters myself.”

  “And you did an excellent job of it, too, Mr. Younger,” Bob said. “It’s just that when I was with the 7th, I was considered an expert in booby-trapping.”

  “Seventh Special Forces?” Cole questioned.

  “That is correct, sir. Four tours in Nam.”

  “I did a couple there myself.” Cole pointed to the big coffeepot. “The coffee should be ready, Mr. Robbins. You and your people help yourselves. We’ll see about some breakfast in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you.”

  Introductions were made all around, and the group settled down in camp chairs or stools or on the ground. Coffee was poured and water put on for oatmeal.

  “We had a little run-in with Brother Ely ourselves,” Cole said. “Is the man playing with a full deck?”

  “Most of the time,” Bob replied. “I’ve known for months that he was undercutting me in the ranks. I just didn’t know how serious it was until it was too late. During the congressional hearings on the militia movement last year, I tried, unsuccessfully, to alert the committee members to just how dangerous and how large the extreme radical right of the religious movement was. But I couldn’t find anyone who was really interested in listening to me in private. Every time I’d bring up the subject of the devil, they would look at me like I was some sort of nut.” He smiled. “And I suspect you folks will, too, before very much longer.”

  “I doubt it,” Hank said, and that got him a strange look from Bob Robbins.

  “Go on,” Cole urged the militiaman.

  “Well ...” Bob took a sip of coffee. “Here goes. Laughter will follow, I’m sure. I became convinced that what is now occurring had to happen. To my mind, it was inevitable. This country had sunk to an all-time low. Morals were at the lowest point in the history of the nation. On the television and in the movies, people were hopping in and out of bed like rabbits. Much of the dialogue was pure filth. Certain types of what some called music was . . . well, awful. In the private sector, words like honor, respect, fairness, truthfulness . . . they were meaningless. Divorces were at an all-time high. Teen pregnancies had reached epidemic proportions. People had no faith in government. People were suing each other for the most trivial of things. Our courts were clogged. Crime skyrocketed. Savage acts of violence . . . for no apparent reason. Drive-by shootings ... why? To my mind we had lost the war on drugs. Prisons were overflowing; construction of new prisons couldn’t even begin to keep up with the demand for more cell space. Citizens were being assaulted and shot and killed in their own homes by government agents simply because of their beliefs, or that they wanted to exercise their right to own firearms. The IRS had turned punitive and dictatorial toward Americans, and Congress wouldn’t do a thing to rein them in. The list of ills and woes confronting this nation was and is depressingly long. And I began to believe that some . . . well, here goes, higher power, had to be behind all this . . . insanity. And Ely Worthingham agreed with me. But I should have seen the fanaticism in his eyes. We were once good, close friends. He was the militia’s chaplain. I occasionally attended his church. But . . . I didn’t catch on to his game until it was too late. I was remiss in that. Then, just about a year ago . . . slightly over a year ago now . . .” Bob looked down at the dark coffee in his tin cup and sighed. He shook his head. “I began hearing music from out of the fifties. It just came out of the air. And at the oddest times. Hell, I thought I was losing my mind . . .”

  “What kind of music, Bob?” Cole asked.

  “At first, it was mostly what is referred to as rockabilly. Early Elvis, Jerry Lee, early Orbison. Then it began including some pop songs, big band stuff. Listen to me. It? What the hell is it?”

  “Who else heard the music, Bob?” Jim asked. “This Ely Worthingham?”

  “Oh, no. He hates all types of rock and roll. Even the early good stuff. Music that I consider to be the epitome of rock and roll. Raw and primitive, before it got all cluttered up.” He smiled, and it was a good smile that included every feature of his face, even his eyes. “I’m considered something of an expert on music from about 1950 through 1965. After that, it turned to shit. Pardon my expression. I’ve got several thousand records and tapes. Or had, I should say. They might have survived the fire. I don’t know. I had them in the basement of my home, in a specially built vault.”

  “Who burned your house?” Hank asked.

  “Ely and his people.”

  Cole looked at the men and women who had accompanied Bob. “Did any of you hear the music?”

  “All of us have,” one of the women replied. “Lots of times. But I’m positive that no one who sided with Ely has. One of the women who flip-floppe
d several times—couldn’t make up her mind whose side she belonged on—and finally came over to us, was shocked the first time she heard it. Scared her half to death. We’ve pretty much gotten used to it now. But it’s . . . eerie.”

  “Are there ever any voices, or just one voice, before or after the music?” Cole asked.

  Bob and his group all shook their heads, Bob saying, “No. Never. Why do you ask?”

  “Have a bowl of oatmeal and relax,” Hank said. “It’s quite a story. It started about a year ago, when Cole was driving up to Illinois to pick up a prisoner . . .”

  * * *

  When governments collapse and law and order breaks down there is panic in the streets and anarchy is king. In the United States, there are approximately 2.8 police officers for every one thousand citizens. When half of the officers do not report for work, there are 1.4 police officers per one thousand citizens. And anyone who believes that seven police officers can control a mob of five thousand does not have their head screwed on straight. And the police are the first ones to realize this. In many (if not most) areas of the nation, police are underpaid, underappreciated, overworked, and the butt of slurs and bad jokes and sarcasm from the very people they daily put their asses on the line to protect. But even knowing this, the vast majority of cops do their best to serve and protect.

  However, when a wild-eyed and armed mob of several thousand men and women charge a couple of cops, no cop in his or her right mind is going to stand there popping away with their 9 mms and get their butts killed for nothing.

  All over the United States, police and sheriffs department personnel saw the writing on the wall and quietly pulled down the shades, turned off the lights, and locked the door, so to speak.

  Since the military had been drastically downsized, there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot they could do, except guard their bases (those that hadn’t been closed by Congress) and equipment and wish everybody else good luck.

  In other words, brothers and sisters, you are on your own.

  * * *

  Bob Robbins and the people with him sat and stared at Hank for a long, silent moment. Finally Bob cleared his throat and finished off the now lukewarm coffee in his cup. “A month ago I would have laughed in your face,” he said to Hank. “But not now. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. I have a lot of questions about it being the devil’s work and this strange music, but they can wait.” He looked at Cole. “I’ve got about fifty people with me in these mountains; scattered all over the place in small groups. They’re all good men and women. They’ll stand and fight to their last breath. We’ve got to reclaim this nation and restore some order out of this chaos.”

  “Seventy of us?” Hank blurted.

  “Castro started out with a lot less than that,” Cole reminded the priest.

  “This has got to be the most unlikely bunch of guerrilla fighters in history,” Pete King said.

  “They always are,” Bob Robbins replied with a smile.

  “I have a question,” sixteen-year-old Anne Mercer said.

  “Go ahead, miss,” Bob said.

  “Who are we going to fight? The devil?”

  Hank smiled. “No, dear. We fight the devil’s helpers.”

  “But this Ely Worthingham person,” Anne persisted. “He isn’t a part of those aligned with the devil.”

  “He’s worse,” Katti said, putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “The devil can be defeated using what God gave us up here.” She tapped the side of her head. “The Worthinghams of this country have to be dealt with in a different manner.”

  “So we fight with guns?” Pat Winfield asked.

  “Yes,” Hank told the teenager.

  “But that’s what the police and the army is supposed to do,” Jane King said.

  “Ma’am,” Bob Robbins said. “We don’t have any police left, at least not around here. And probably damn few nationwide. What’s left of the nation’s armed forces have their hands full protecting their bases and equipment and the few government leaders we still have. The hard truth is, we no longer have a functioning government. It’s total anarchy out there. Ely Worthingham, and dozens of others just like him all over the country, are attempting to forge a new nation under their own off-the-wall and narrow views, but claiming it’s all based on God’s word. Unfortunately, thousands, perhaps millions of people will agree, at least in part, with the Ely Worthinghams who are popping up like fleas all over the country.” He cut his eyes to the three teenagers. “Boys and girls, if you listen to heavy metal music or rap, I’ll tell you right up front that I hate that damn racket, but that doesn’t give me the right to tell you that you can’t listen to it. But Ely Worthingham wants to make it a law forbidding the recording, playing, selling, or listening to any type of music he dislikes. He wants to tell us what kind of movies or TV shows we can watch, what we can read, what organizations we can belong to, how to raise our kids, what is to be taught in schools . . . to sum it up, the Ely Worthinghams of this world want to control every aspect of our lives from cradle to grave. They have to be stopped.”

  “And you think we can do that?” James Mercer asked.

  “Yes,” Cole answered that. “I do.”

  The voice of Buddy Holly suddenly ripped the quiet early morning air. “That’ll Be The Day.”

  Three

  Cole and Jim both whistled when Bob and his people began pulling back the tarps covering the beds of the trucks. He had enough military hardware to start World War Three—which he might have had in mind to begin with.

  “I started really getting jumpy last year,” Bob said. “When the militias started taking so much heat. I have a buddy down south who is an arms dealer. The Feds were about to shut him down. I got a good deal on the stuff. I already had a lot of equipment; some of this stuff just put the icing on the cake. You’re looking at just part of it. The rest is buried around here and there.” He smiled. “Including a dozen .50-caliber machine guns.”

  Bob had M-60 machine guns, Squad Automatic Weapons, cases of grenades, mortars, and cases of mortar rounds. Crates of M-16s, and cases of 5.56, 7.62, and .50-caliber rounds.

  “Got any Claymores?” Jim asked, sarcasm heavy in his tone.

  “Sure,” Bob said with a laugh. “And a dozen Big Thumpers, too.”

  “You have got to be kidding!”

  “Nope. And they’re a hell of a lot better than we had during Nam. These are state of the art. MK 19-3s. Effective range for antipersonnel is 1800 yards, with a killing range of nearly seventeen feet.”

  “You want to level with me on something, Bob?” Jim asked.

  “Ask away, ol’ buddy.”

  “Were the militias ever a threat to national security?”

  “Such as ... what? How do you mean that?”

  “Takeover.”

  “Oh, hell no. None that I know of. We were purely defensive. Now, let me qualify that: had the government ever tried to move in and take our weapons, some of us would have resisted. My group for damn sure would have fought. I can’t speak for the others, but I’m sure that some of them would have turned guerrilla and fought the government.” He paused. “It was coming to that, you know?”

  Cole and Jim both had to reluctantly agree that the nation had been edging slowly toward some kind of citizen revolt . . . probably an armed revolt. Senators and representatives seemed unable to grasp the dangerous mood of millions of Americans. Cole put that into words.

  Bob Robbins nodded his head. “But now we have a chance to straighten out some of the mess. We have to be careful not to go too far to the right, but still pull away from a lot of liberal thinking. I—”

  “You’d better hear this, Colonel,” one of Bob’s people called from a shortwave radio set up on a camp table.

  The three men walked over to the radio and the volume was turned up.

  “... A group calling themselves Citizens for a Tax Free America have claimed responsibility for the killings. The fourteen people, eight men and six women found shot to
death this morning, were all employees of the IRS. The spokesperson for the CTFA said plans for the assassination of IRS employees had been in the works for several years. They had planned to kick off their campaign of assassination on April the fifteenth of next year. They have a list of all IRS employees and have stated that if the government attempts to reestablish the IRS, every person on that list will die—”

  “Floyd Haines’s group,” Bob said.

  “You knew about this?” Jim asked.

  “I knew Floyd and his people were planning to do something pretty damn drastic. But I didn’t know what. He tried to get my people to join him last year. I said no thanks and showed him the door. Everything that is happening, with the exception of the, ah, devil’s intervention, was predictable. This nation was forged out of the flames of revolution, Jim. We of the militias saw all this coming. We tried to tell the government it was coming. At least give us credit for that. You saw what happened: the press belittled us, made us all appear to be ignorant buffoons, and for the most part, the government ignored us. I’m on record as being one hundred percent totally opposed to political assassination. But I knew it was coming. I just had no idea the damn devil would have a part in it.” He shook his head. “The devil. Incredible!”

  Andrews Air Force Base.

  Temporary seat of the United States Government.

  The Joint Chiefs were blunt, and their words were not what the newly sworn-in president wanted to hear. “Let it play itself out,” the chairman of the JC’s said. “We do not have the people to put it down.”

  “You could—”

  The chairman cut the president off. “We can do nothing! Even if you people on the hill had not cut us down to bare bone, we still would be unable to contain this. Let me see if I can get through to you, Mr. President. No disrespect intended by those words. There are an estimated ten thousand various groups out there.” He waved his hand toward the window. “Ranging in size from fifty to five hundred or more. We know this from around-the-clock monitoring of shortwave frequencies. All these groups are heavily armed, and each has their own agenda. About forty-five percent of the military personnel on active duty have gone AWOL. For whatever reason. They were worried about their families, their parents, property, or ... whatever the hell it was that caused this insanity got to them. We’ve got dozens of facilities and trillions of dollars’ worth of equipment to guard. We can’t let nuclear weapons and fighters and bombers and long-range artillery and rifles and machine guns and billions of rounds of ammunition fall into the wrong hands. I’d get in touch with the more rational leaders of state militias and ask them to work with us. Not all of them are nuts and kooks and Rambo wannabees. There are a lot of good, decent men and women out there.”