“Let’s see what the citizens have to say.” He faced the ever-growing number of townspeople.
“How would you people like to have a town meeting this afternoon? If there is a law you don’t like—change it. It’s your town, you live here.”
“Where are the federal police?” a man called out the question.
“In jail, along with the sheriff and the chief of police.”
Another citizen shared the grins of many in the crowd. Several men and women laughed aloud. “Now, that’s a sight I’d like to see.”
“They haven’t been good lawmen?” Ben asked.
“They were appointed after the federalization order went into effect,” he was told. “Being out there in the Tri-States like you were, you probably didn’t—couldn’t—know all that was going on out here. They got awful high and mighty once they realized the ordinary citizen couldn’t touch them in any way; when the private guns were rounded up and only the cops and a few of their friends were armed. You know what I mean, General.”
“Yes, I do,” Ben said. “Well, all that is going to change—shortly.”
“We’ll see you at the school at five.”
* * *
The parking lot of the local high school was full to overflowing, the Rebels forced to park cars in the nearby streets. Inside, teenagers were placed in charge of the very young children, classrooms used as childcare rooms. The adults, those seventeen and older, were packed into the auditorium.
The sight of armed, uniformed Rebels had served a twofold purpose: piquing the curiosity of the citizens and quieting them down considerably. Still there was a low hum of quiet conversation. This was the first time the people had been allowed to meet, en masse, since the government had reformed after the bombings of 1988 and the relocation efforts of the government.
When Ben stepped onto the stage, the hum of conversation ceased.
Ben looked the crowd over and they looked back at him. He clicked the mike on and spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?”
The amplifier was set too high and the huge room was filled with electronic feedback. The amplifier was adjusted and Ben continued.
“My name is General Ben Raines. I am commander of what the press has termed The Rebels. Your police and sheriff’s department no longer exist, as such. This town, for the moment, is under martial law.”
There was a roar of conversation and Ben hastened to reassure the people.
“Let me explain, folks; I think you probably have the wrong idea.”
The people showed no sign of quieting, so Ben leaned against the podium and waited. After a moment, a man stood up and began walking down the aisle. Midway, he stopped. “I’m Ed Vickers,” he said. “Mayor of Radford. What in the hell is going on in this country? Particularly here in this town?”
“We—the Rebels—are taking control from the government,” Ben told him. “And returning it to the people, hopefully,” he added.
“Good luck,” the mayor grunted. “Where are the federal police?”
“Outside in the hall, alive and well, under guard. The only thing hurt about any of them is their dignity.”
“Too damn bad about their dignity,” a man’s voice rumbled from the depths of the crowd. “You give that blond-headed, young, smart-mouthed city cop to me and I’ll hurt more than his dignity.”
It was going just as Ben thought it would. He listened for a moment as some others began shouting out their complaints concerning the federal police and their high-handed tactics. Ben propped the butt of the old Thompson on the podium and let his features harden in the harsh lights. He looked tough, dangerous, and very competent.
The packed auditorium grew silent.
Ben laid the Thompson on a low table. “What we are going to do this evening, people, is something I have long advocated for all states of this nation.”
Roanna was carefully recording every word. She did so with a faint smile of admiration on her lips. If she came out of this alive, she felt she would win the Pulitzer for this story.
“You people are going to have a town meeting. An old-fashioned town-hall meeting. It’s your right to do that. This is your town, you live here, your tax dollars help support it—you certainly have a right to have a say in the way it’s run. Within reason, and keeping in mind that every law-abiding citizen has his or her rights, you people may govern this town the way you see fit.”
One man, seated in the rear of the auditorium, jumped to his feet. “I’m the local DA,” he said. “And I want to go on record as being opposed to everything you and your band of outlaws stand for.”
A man seated across the aisle got to his feet, stepped across the aisle, and punched the DA in the mouth, knocking him back in his seat.
“Excuse me, General,” he said, rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. “But a lot of us have wanted to do that for a long time. He’s federal, just like the cops, and he’s come down hard on a lot of us.”
“You’re both of the same size and age,” Ben said. “Hit him again if you want to.”
“I’ll sue you!” the DA shouted.
The room exploded in laughter and shouts of hooting derision.
And many of the Rebels present were suddenly flung back in time, to another day, a more peaceful time, back to the Tri-States.
THREE
The reception center at the entrance to the Tri-States was large and cool and comfortable, furnished with a variety of chairs and couches. Racks of literature about Tri-States, its people, its economy, and its laws filled half of one wall. A table with doughnuts and two coffee urns sat in the center of the room; soft-drink machines were set to the right of the table. Between two closed doors was a four-foot high desk, fifteen feet long, closed from floor to top. Behind the desk, two young women stood, one of them Tina Raines. The girls were dressed identically: jeans and light blue shirts.
“Good morning,” Tina greeted the reporters on their first excursion into the heretofore closed state of Tri-States. “Welcome to the Tri-States. My name is Tina, this is Judy. Help yourself to coffee and doughnuts—they’re free—or a soft drink.”
A reporter named Barney—known for his arrogance, his rudeness, and his obnoxiousness—leaned on the counter, his gaze on Tina’s breasts. She looked older than her seventeen years. Barney smiled at her.
“Anything else free around here?” he asked, all his famous offensiveness coming through.
The words had just left his mouth when the door to an office whipped open and a uniformed Rebel stepped out. He was short, muscular, hard-looking, and tanned. He wore a .45 automatic, holstered, on his right side.
“Tina, who said that?”
She pointed to Barney. “That one.”
“Oh, hell!” Judith Sparkman said.
“Quite,” her boss concurred.
The Rebel master-sergeant walked up to Barney, stopped a foot from him. Barney looked shaken, his color similar to old whipped cream. A minicam operator began rolling, recording the event.
“I’m Sergeant Roisseau,” the Rebel said. “It would behoove you, in the future, to keep off-color remarks to yourself. You have been warned; this is a one-mistake state, and you’ve made yours.”
“I… ah… was only making a little joke,” Barney said. “I meant nothing by it.” The blood rushed to his face, betraying the truth.
“Your face says you’re a liar,” Roisseau said calmly.
“And you’re armed!” Barney said, blinking. He was indignant; the crowd he ran with did not behave in this manner over a little joke. No matter how poor the taste.
Smiling, Roisseau unbuckled his web belt and laid his pistol on the desk. “Now, fish or cut bait,” he challenged Barney.
That shook Barney. All the bets were down and the pot was right. He shook his head. “No… I won’t fight you.”
“Not only do you have a greasy mouth,” Roisseau said. “You’re a coward to boot.”
Barney’s eyes narrowed, but he wisely kept his
mouth shut.
“All right,” Roisseau said. “When you apologize to the young lady, we’ll forget it.”
“I’ll be damned!” Barney said, looking around him for help. None came forward.
“Probably,” Roisseau said. “But that is not the immediate issue.” He looked at Tina and winked, humor in his dark eyes. “So, newsman, if you’re too timid to fight me, perhaps you’d rather fight the young lady?”
“The kid?” Barney questioned, then laughed aloud. “What is this, some kind of joke?”
Judith walked to Barney’s side. She sensed there was very little humor in any of this, and if there was any humor, the joke was going to be on Barney. And it wasn’t going to be funny. “Barney, ease off. Apologize to her. You were out of line.”
“No. I was only making a joke.”
“Nobody laughed,” she reminded him. She backed away, thinking: are the people of this state humorless? Or have they just returned to the values my generation tossed aside?
Barney shook his head. “No way. You people must be crazy.”
The camera rolled, silently recording.
Roisseau smiled, then looked at Tina. “Miss Raines, the… gentleman is all yours. No killing blows, girl. Just teach him a hard lesson in manners.”
Tina put her left hand on the desk and, in one fluid motion, as graceful as a cat, vaulted the desk to land on her tennis-shoe-clad feet.
She stood quietly in front of the man who outweighed her by at least fifty pounds. She offered a slight bow. Had Barney any knowledge of the martial arts, he would have fainted, thus saving himself some bruises.
Tina held her hands in front of her, palms facing Barney, then drew her left hand back to her side, balling the fist. Her right foot was extended, unlike a boxer’s stance. Her right hand open, palm out, knife edge to Barney. Her eyes were strangely void of expression. Barney could not know she was psyching herself for combat.
Barney did notice the light ridge of calluses that ran from the tips of her fingers to the juncture of wrist. He backed away.
Almost with the speed of a striking snake, Tina kicked high with her foot, catching Barney on the side of the face. He slammed backward against a wall, then recoiled forward, stunned at the suddenness of it all. With no change in her expression, Tina lashed out with the knife edge of her hand, slamming a blow just above his kidney, then slapped him on the face with a stinging pop. Barney dropped to his knees, his back hurting, his face aching, blood dripping from a corner of his mouth. He rose slowly to his feet, his face a vicious mask of hate and rage and frustration, mingled with disbelief.
“You bitch,” he snarled. “You rotten little cunt.”
Roisseau laughed. “Now you are in trouble, hotshot.”
Barney shuffled forward, in a boxer’s stance, his chin tucked into his shoulder. He swung a wide looping fist at Tina. She smiled at his clumsiness and turned slightly, catching his right wrist. Using the forward motion of his swing against him, and her hips for leverage, she tossed the man over her side and bounced him off a wall. Quickly reaching down, her hands open, positioned on either side of his head, Tina brought them in sharply, hard, slamming the open palms over his ears at precisely the same moment. Barney screamed in pain and rolled in agony on the floor, a small dribble of blood oozing from one damaged ear.
Tina smoothed her hair. She was not even breathing hard. She looked at Roisseau. “Did I do all right, Sergeant?”
The reporters then noticed the flap of Roisseau’s holster, lying on the desk, open, the butt of the .45 exposed. And all were glad no one tried to interfere.
Then, from the floor of the reception center, came the battle cry of urbane, modern, twentieth-century man. Unable to cope with a situation, either mentally or physically, or because of laws that have been deballing the species for years, man bellowed the words:
“I’ll sue you!”
The room rocked with laughter. News commentators, reporters, camerapeople and soundpeople; people who, for years, had recorded the best and worst of humankind, all laughed at the words from their sometimes reluctant colleague.
“Sue!” the bureau chief of one network managed to gasp the word despite his laughter. “Sue? Sue a little teenage girl who just whipped your big, manly butt? Really, Barney! I’ve warned you for years your mouth would someday get you in trouble.”
Roisseau spoke to the girl behind the desk. “Judy, get on the horn and call the medics and tell them we have a hotshot with a pulled fuse.” He faced the crowd of newspeople.
“You’re all due at a press conference in two hours. Meanwhile, I’d suggest you all help yourselves to coffee and doughnuts and soft drinks and study the pamphlets we have for you.” He glanced at Barney, sitting on the floor, moaning and holding his head. “As for suing anyone, I’d forget about it. Our form of government discourages lawsuits. You’d lose anyway.”
“I’ll take this to the Supreme Court!” Barney yelled.
“Fine. Governor Raines is someday going to appoint one for us. Next twenty or thirty years. We don’t recognize yours.”
Several reporters indicated they thought that to be perfectly ridiculous.
Roisseau shrugged. “Works for us,” he said, then walked back into his office, closing the door.
The medics said Barney’s only serious injury was a deflated ego. They sat him in a chair, patted him on the head, and left, chuckling.
“Very simple society we have here,” a reporter observed. “Live and let live, all the while respecting the rights of others who do the same. Very basic.”
“And very unconstitutional,” another remarked.
“I wonder,” Judith said aloud. She would be the only one of the press corps to stay in the Tri-States, becoming a citizen. “I just wonder if it is?”
“Oh, come on, Judith,” Clayton said, shaking his head. “The entire argument is superfluous. There is no government of Tri-States. It doesn’t exist. The government of the United States doesn’t recognize it. It just doesn’t exist.”
Several Jeeps pulled into the parking area. The reporters watched a half-dozen Rebel soldiers—male and female, dressed in tiger-stripes—step out of the Jeeps. The soldiers were all armed with automatic weapons and sidearms.
“Really?” Judith smiled. She pointed to the Rebels. “Well, don’t tell me Tri-States doesn’t exist—tell them!”
* * *
Ben allowed several of the citizens to shout at one another for a time, then the majority quieted the few unruly ones down. The general mood of the crowd was good; many had had little to be happy about for years. Most had rejected the present government as soon as it took power, viewing it as a society based on fear rather than respect. They were ready for a change for the better.
But some were thinking: can we really change something we don’t like? Can we do that? After all, the government’s always told us what to do; how to drive our vehicles; how to run our lives; how to run our schools; how we may and may not treat criminals… my goodness! what are we going to do with all this freedom?
“Now, just hold on a minute,” the mayor shouted the crowd into silence. “Radford is a part of the state of Virginia and a part of America. Regardless of what we think of our present form of government—and I’ll be the first to admit it’s got a lot of bad points—we can’t just break away and form our own little society, independent of the central government. We have to…”
“Ah, hell, Ed!” a man stood up. “Shut up and sit down,” he said good-naturedly. “We know there are laws we can’t change; most of us wouldn’t want to change them. But there’s just a whole bunch of laws on the books we can change—that need to be changed. There are laws that might apply to some far-off city that just don’t apply to us. Let’s kick it around some. Won’t hurt to do that.”
There was an unquestioned roar of approval from the crowd. The crowd talked all at once for several minutes, then, as if all of one mind, they turned to face the stage.
Ben said, “I think you people are
just like ninety percent of the population: you just want to live as free as possible and obey the law. You work for what you have, and work hard for it. You’d like to see as much of your tax dollar stay at home as possible; you’d like to respect your government, and not—as is now the case—live in fear of it.
“That nine people dressed in black robes, sitting on a bench in some city, have the right to tell millions what is best for them is ridiculous—and most of us know it. But until only recently, we were powerless to change it. It was bad before the bombings—borderlining on asininity; I don’t have to tell you what has happened since the world exploded; you’ve all had the misfortune to live under the rule of a madman and his police state.
“The price of real freedom never comes cheaply—it is, in fact, very high. Sometimes, in order to gain real freedom, one must break some laws—as we are doing. But I believe—and I think you all agree with me—the end will justify the means. If I didn’t believe that, I would not be asking my men and women to lay their lives on the line for you people. I would just take my personnel and head into a section of the nation and rebuild my Tri-States. But I realized that I would have to someday fight the central government. So here we are. Like marriage, for better or for worse.”
The crowd laughed for several moments at that; the men more than the women.
“Okay,” Ben held up his hand for silence. “We’ll be pulling out in the morning, then you folks can have yourselves a real town meeting, without us looking over your shoulders. But at the outset of this meeting, someone in the audience had a beef concerning your local federal police. What was it?”
A man stood up. “I’m the one. First of all, let me say that I think we in Radford are more fortunate than some other folks. We’ve been… well, untouched is not the word, but handled a bit easier than others around us. No torture that I know of—at least not the physical kind, not until the cops grabbed my daughter, that is.
Fire in the Ashes ta-2 Page 16
