2041 The Peoples' United States Page 5

  Thomas & Abigail “moonlighted” in their secret turquoise mine. They settled near that mine where a clear, cold creek came down out of the Toiyabe Range and emptied into the intermittent dry lake that comprises the Valley floor.

  The local Mormon families kept very detailed genealogies and histories, so much of the Jackson family history in Nevada was provided by Tom’s Mormon friends and neighbors, the rest was provided by the small Jackson family cemetery and the Jackson Family Bible.

  Thomas Johnathan Jackson was named in honor of the revered Confederate General “Stonewall” Jackson. Through the following Jackson generations, most Jackson boys bore the names of Thomas or Johnathan, although “Robert Edward” did show up a couple of times. Tom’s father, John, and his mother, Betty, also called the Stonewall Ranch home and the family worked the Ranch together. They also worked the family’s small, but quite profitable, turquoise mine. This traditional American way of life was beyond The Collective’s comprehension.

  Immediately after the “Battle of Round Mountain”, Tom and John went to work preparing for Collective visitors. Immediately, the sign at the Ranch entrance was taken down and replaced with a sign that read, “No Trespassing by Order of Nevada Collective”. The Ranch lane was disguised to look unused. Supplies were relocated to the “bug out shelter” a couple hundred yards further up the creek. Guns and ammo were stashed in secret armories. Over the next 14 years, the existing solar array was upgraded, new dugouts were constructed, and other shelters upgraded, and a myriad of other precautions were taken. But The Collective never came. A couple of days after the battle, the power went out and did not come back on. Some in the Valley say The Collective shut it off; others say the Resistance knocked it out.

  When Tom Jackson and sons arrived at the Northwest Dugout at midmorning on Monday, April 2, 2041, it was not just a camp site. The dugout had been upgraded over the last few years as an alternate “bug out shelter”. There were eight cots, a wood stove, canned food, medical supplies, a shortwave radio, and everything eight people would need for a 60 day stay. The dugout itself was well camouflaged, virtually undetectable from the air, and when approached on the ground, you could pass within yards and still miss it.

  Why were there eight bunks? About a week after the Battle of Round Mountain, just after dark, there was a knock on the front door of the Jackson’s triple-wide manufactured home. The Jackson’s expected the worst. Betty, Patty, and the two boys slipped out the backdoor and headed to the shelter. Betty and Patty each packed a 9mm Glock. John grabbed his sawed off 12 gauge and Tom pulled his 9 mm from its’ holster. Tom opened the door and Grandpa John leveled his shotgun. Two familiar figures were standing on the front porch.

  Carlos and Gabriella Garcia threw their hands into the air screaming, “Mister Tom, don’t shoot.”

  “Hold your fire Dad, they’re part of the Crew.

  “You two look like shit. Let’s get some hot food in you. Dad, go tell the women and kids to get back to the house.”

  Tom sat Carlos and “Gabby” down at the kitchen table, poured them each a tall glass of cold, fresh milk, then slid bowls of hot beef stew in front of them.

  Tom sat down across the table, “What are you guys doing here?”

  Carlos started talking in between gulps of milk and stew, “After we finished off those Chinese pieces-of-shit, me and Gabby went back to town to find little Carlos. He was at school when those bastards bombed the town. Tom, my boy is dead” Carlos and Gabby both broke into tears.

  Just then the women and boys returned to the house.

  Tom introduced Carlos and Gabriella, then Carlos continued, “Our home was gone, our son was gone, so we started driving north. That’s when we saw helicopters and stopped at the old Motel in Carver’s. We parked the truck under a cottonwood and traded our wedding rings for four nights and some food. We didn’t have much gas, so we decided to find your place, but you took your damned sign down.”

  “Damned right I did; and it looks like it worked,” Tom sarcastically answered with a chuckle.

  Carlos wasn’t laughing, “It almost worked too well, and with that funky ‘No Trespassing’ sign we almost didn’t come up your driveway. Man, from the road this place looks like it’s been deserted for 100 years. You’ve done a good job disguising the front of the place, shutters half off, tumbleweeds on the front porch, cottonwood tree down in the front yard, and waist high dry grass.”

  Gabby then pleaded their case, “Senor Tom, we’ve lost it all. That damn Collective and those fucking Chinese killed our son, burnt our home, and destroyed the best jobs we ever had. I hate those fuckers and want revenge, venganza!”

  Tom interrupted, “You have to be alive to get revenge,”

  “Yes, Senor Tom, we must be alive. That is why I now plead to you. Let us live at this Ranch.”

  “Gabby, no reason to plead, you can stay here, but if you plan on living here, we need to set some rules. Leave the chaos to The Collective. Here we have rules. This is not a democracy. Dad and I are in charge.”

  “We understand Mr. Tom, we will be like part of the family.”

  True to Gabby’s words, the Garcias did become like family. The Jackson’s made good use of Carlos’ skill as a mechanic, electrician, and welder. Gabby’s EMT training came in handy. She was a hard worker and good cook.

  Life at the Stonewall Ranch was good, but the work was hard. There were eggs to gather each morning from the chicken coop, cows to be milked morning and evening, and a few hogs to tend especially during the winter months. This wasn’t Kentucky and hogs don’t like cold weather. The climate here was good for growing potatoes which formed the basis of the extended family’s diet. Eggs, milk, beef, pork, chicken, antelope, mule deer, fish, fruit from the orchard, garden vegetables, and black-market purchases rounded out the menu.

  Tom set up a division of labor and everyone pulled their weight. The two Jackson boys started doing chores at an early age and the Jackson’s mixed practical home schooling in with the chores. The boys also spent many evenings in Dad’s library.

  The Jackson’s ace-in-the-hole was their turquoise mine. Don’t ask about the exact location of the mine, but it was higher up on the Toiyabe Range’s alluvial fan, where a crumbling claystone rock face exposed the turquoise vein.

  After the 2026 Revolution, Native Americans were elevated to near sainthood status. So Native American, excuse me, Indigenous Peoples’ Art became all the rage on the black market and the price of turquoise skyrocketed.

  Before the Revolution, the small town of Austin, at the north end of the Valley, had become a somewhat trendy, artsy-fartsy place and, after the Revolution, turquoise and silver jewelry production exploded into a major cottage industry.

  Tom and the boys had a secondary mission to accomplish on their trip to the Northwest Dugout that fine April morning in 2041. Tom had a quarter pound of raw turquoise in a leather pouch slung over his saddle horn. Pre-Revolution, those stones were worth at least $10,000, but were now worth double that on the 2041 black-market. Austin, and the surrounding area, was a nexus of black-market activity fueled by its’ proximity to gold, silver, turquoise, and beef.

  For Tom Jackson, Austin had an importance even greater than just being his turquoise outlet; his Resistance contact was also his turquoise trader. As the boys tended to their horses, two steers, and their pack mule, Miss Daisy, Tom tended to the dugout.

  After getting things sorted out, he hollered, “Boys, tomorrow morning we’ll go into Austin, do our business, spend the night there, then come back here day-after-tomorrow. Keep a low profile, follow my lead, and be ready for anything.”

  Spud

  Junior heard a dog growl, then leapt up to find himself looking straight down the barrel of a Winchester rifle.

  “Boy, I wouldn’t make any sudden moves if I was you.” A short, old, thin, White man in bib overalls was on the other end of the Winchester. A German Shepherd was standing at the old man’s side, baring his teeth at Junior.

 
“Pardon Max here, he don’t take kindly to strangers.”

  Bobby Ray raised his head, suddenly wide awake.

  The old man cast a sideways glance at Bobby Ray, “Son, I suggest you just stay down on the ground, don’t move, and keep your damned mouth shut.”

  Only one thought popped into Junior’s mind, “This is one hell of a way to start the morning.”

  “This is my land and no Collective sons-of-bitches gonna take it!”

  The old man’s piercing blue eyes then examined Junior up and down, in detail, then he started laughing, “You are him, ain’t ya? I done caught me the Rambro.”

  Junior started forcing out a laugh, “I do look like that dude, don’t I?”

  “Good try, Blood, but unless you can make up some bullshit story real quick about how you got that scar on your right cheek, you are him.”

  Junior thought he was toast, “What are you going to do if I am?”

  “Well, the first thing I’m going to do is lower this rifle, just a bit, and ask you if you’d like some hot coffee and breakfast. Any man can take out a squad of fuckin’ Chinamen from his hospital bed deserves a hot breakfast.”

  The old man then turned to Bobby Ray who was totally surprised by this revelation, “Come on boy, I’m sure you have your own cockamamie story. Just don’t make any sudden moves and upset ol’ Max here.”

  Junior, Bobby Ray, Max, and the old man walked through the pasture about 200 yards to a single-wide house trailer. The trailer was old but well maintained.

  “Home. sweet home.” The old man unlocked the door and “invited” Junior and Bobby Ray to step inside, “Step right in men, but leave those wet, dirty boots on the mat, by the door.”

  The trailer was clean and simply furnished. It was quite warm and cozy with a low fire smoldering in the wood stove.

  “Guess introductions are in order. I’m John Parker but around these parts people just call me Spud.”

  Spud focused directly on Bobby Ray, “And you are?”

  “Bobby Ray, Bobby Ray Skipper.”

  “You mean like a boat skipper?”

  Bobby Ray sarcastically replied, “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”

  With a bow and a flourish Spud turned toward Junior and proclaimed, “Now we all know who you are, Mr. Rambro…”

  Junior interrupted, “Mr. Parker, I’m Darius Johnson. All that Rambro shit was put out there by the Fake News Media.”

  “Yes, they did pin that label on you, Mr. Johnson. Always thought they were trying to ridicule you, but the color of your skin wouldn’t allow them to come at you head-on.”

  “You got it Mr. Spud, there’s no place in their world for a Black man who loves his country, his family, and his God. They had to marginalize me, then criminalize me.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, they can kiss my old White ass and their Chinese pimps can go straight to hell. Ain’t that right, Bobby Ray?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Spud.”

  “Y’all sit down and I’ll fry up some ham and eggs. Then Bobby Ray can tell his cockamamie tale...”

  After they had finished breakfast and Bobby Ray had told his story, Spud hung his head for just a moment, then started cussing loud enough to startle Max.

  “Those God damned sons-of-bitches! Bobby Ray, son, you remember who did this. Never forget, it was that fucking gang of Chinese ass kissers that took your family and home.

  “My little girl, my only child, she fought those Chinese bastards over there in Okinawa. She lived through that hell. Then, when she came home, she just disappeared. I hope she’s alive, but I’m afraid she’s dead.”

  Spud’s face then turned stone cold as his eyes shifted towards Junior, “The Collective has been expanding this way out of Lexington. They are confiscating farms, rounding up White folks, and even lynching Black folks who won’t join ‘em. Yep, I said lynching. Hanging people from trees. Looks like a scene out of ‘Birth of a Nation’ or somethin. It’s a perpetual motion train wreck.

  “Now you men listen real close. I expect they will be here in the next week, or so. Keep on I-64 and stay back in the fence rows. The Collective is moving east along US 60, mostly Peoples’ Militia. Traffic on the interstate is pretty light and mostly ‘thru traffic’; shouldn’t bother or even notice you. Now get outta here and I don’t even want to know where in the hell you are going.”

  “Thank you, Spud. Is there any way that me and Bobby Ray can repay you?”

  Spud went back into his bedroom closet and came out with a triangular display case containing an American Flag, the Real 50-Star McCoy.

  “My Daddy was a Marine in Vietnam. He got his nickname over there and passed it on to me. He was there at the end helping load Vietnamese refugees on the last choppers out of Saigon. He won his war, Darius, only to have the fuckin’ rug pulled out from under him by the politicians and that rabble who have now morphed into The Collective. Not too long after I was born, cancer from that Agent Orange started eating Daddy up and he was gone within 6 months. You know how it feels to have that rug snapped out from under you, don’t you, Lance Corporal Johnson?”

  “Yes, I do, but the ‘fat lady’ has yet to sing in my war, Mr. Spud.”

  “I think you’re right, Darius. All I ask is, when that fat bitch does wail, you hoist this flag in honor of all the men, in all the wars, who kept America free.”

  “How will we know where and when to raise the flag, Mr. Parker?”

  “Bobby Ray, don’t you worry, you’ll know.”

  With that, Spud removed the flag from its’ case and handed it to Darius, who then carefully stored it in his pack. Spud then gave them a roll of summer sausage, a fifth of bourbon, and a box of crackers.

  “See you boys in hell!” Spud yelled as Junior and Bobby Ray were just about out of sight.

  Junior smiled and whispered to Bobby Ray, “Devil’s sure gonna be lonely down there without Mr. Spud…”

  The Clinic

  For a White woman, Beth Andrews had done quite well for herself. Beth was an RN and worked at the Peoples’ Out-Patient Clinic in what was once the University Teaching Hospital. She was fortunate to work directly for Dr. Ho S. Pham, a leading Infectious Disease Specialist. Her job was part research and part practical healthcare.

  Beth’s advancement was a result of her performance. This resulted in Beth’s Social Quotient being considerably higher than Natasha’s. That fact was unknown to Beth and Natasha as only Collective bureaucrats had access to an individual’s Social Quotient.

  Natasha’s inquisitive student, Yasmin Pham, was Dr. Pham’s daughter. So, Dr. Pham also had a secret. This was a secret that he and Beth shared with one another, secretly of course.

  Dr. Pham was Beth’s biggest booster, constantly entering well deserved commendations into the Social Quotient database. Beth had that “gift of healing” that is hard to quantify, or explain, but she had it.

  Many influential Members were treated at the “POP Clinic” and many asked for “Member Nurse Andrews” by name. A few even asked for “Nurse Beth” or “Nurse Andrews”. This informality was highly irregular. Many of these influential Members also had access to the Social Quotient database and made positive entries regarding Beth.

  Beth excelled at her vocation and that was dangerous in the Peoples’ United States. Equality of outcome was the guiding principle of the PUS. This system fostered mediocrity, envy, carelessness, conformity, and complete lack of initiative. Many of Beth’s “friends” at the POP Clinic were envious of her advancement and attributed that advancement to her Whiteness. Every workday for Nurse Beth was akin to traversing a mine field.

  Doc Pham had just returned from a conference at Peoples’ Collective Hospital (formerly Walter Reed) in Bethesda, Maryland. Although he was tired from the overnight train ride, by mid-morning he was at the POP Clinic. Doc Pham’s wife, Dr. Yen Pham, also worked at the clinic as a General Practitioner.

  After addressing a few pressing matters, Ho called Member Nurse Beth into his office. H
e turned up the volume on his workstation and pulled up the Peoples’ News Network home page. Peoples’ News Network was droning out the usual political crap. He and Beth placed their Peoples’ Phones next to the workstation then moved two chairs over into the far corner, away from Ho’s desk, and whispered.

  “Beth, a disturbing subject was addressed at the Infectious Disease Conference. Our benefactors in the People’s Republic of China have identified a new virus that is even more transmissible than the COVID-19 virus and has a very high mortality rate, maybe closer to the Ebola mortality rate.”

  Beth was incredulous, “My God, that is scary. Origin?”

  “That’s a good question. There was no information given on point of origin, or if it originated in humans, or jumped from animals to humans, or had a more sinister origin. I got the impression that there has not been an outbreak in China, and everything is under control, but you never know with these Chinese.”

  What Doc Pham didn’t know was that the virus had been tested at various Chinese slave labor camps and prisons over the last couple of years with devastating results.

  “The virus primarily attacks the respiratory system. There’s something about the capsid of this virus, the outer protein covering, that triggers a devastating immune response, a massive cytokine storm. It’s like the immune system ‘carpet bombs’ the infected area. Other organs may be effected, but that is not the norm.”

  “What you’re telling me is that your own immune system kills you if you catch this?”

  “Correct. The virus is even more insidious than COVID. This virus can live on surfaces for days, another attribute of its’ unique capsid. This virus incubates in the upper respiratory tract and can reside there for weeks before attacking the lungs. During that incubation period, the host is extremely contagious. Like COVID on steroids.”

  “Are there any containment plans?”

  “That is the unusual aspect of this situation. Our Chinese friends have already developed a vaccine. Typically, it takes at least a year to develop a vaccine.”