The guardsman pinched my passport and driver\u2019s license between his thumb and forefinger, and I couldn\u2019t help but imagine him saying \u201cPapers, please\u201d before letting me continue into the wilds of Nebraska. The guardsman\u2019s eyes flitted back and forth between the pictures purporting to represent Rod Lemon and the actual Rod Lemon seated behind the wheel of a three year old Ford Explorer. My pictures were several years old and out of date in a few cosmetic ways: I\u2019d given up glasses for contacts, and my once close trimmed black hair was now shaggy and laced with silver. The guardsman studied the disparities as though he were discerning the provenance of two identical works of art.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should get new pictures,\u201d he said while returning my identification.<\/p>\n
I grumbled a reply, took the driver\u2019s license and passport, and turned toward the passenger seat where my editor was fidgeting beneath the gaze of another guardsman who seemed intent on boring into her with his eyes. Finally Meredith was able to reclaim her ID as well.<\/p>\n
\u201cOn your way.\u201d The guardsman added a subtle forward wave as flourish.<\/p>\n
I awakened my vehicle, pulling forward and away from the National Guard checkpoint and easing the SUV toward the westbound onramp for Interstate 80. The heavily armed presence off the 42nd Street interchange, marking the rough border between federally controlled Omaha and the military district that encompassed the rest of Nebraska, sprouted like a weed in what was otherwise an overgrowth of neighborhoods and strip malls. I accelerated down the ramp and brought the vehicle up to speed, finding that sweet spot right around 73 miles per hour where I could indulge my desire to speed without entirely destroying my gas mileage. It would be several more miles before we passed the 80-680 interchange and a few miles beyond that before we escaped Omaha\u2019s city limits. For all practical purposes, though, the stretch of the interstate we were on was already a border land\u2014nominally in the government\u2019s jurisdiction but not heavily patrolled.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd to think\u2014a few years ago I complained about the TSA.\u201d<\/p>\n
I\u2019d switched on my digital recorder as we pulled up to the checkpoint. The mystery story that I was chasing was still hundreds of miles away, but as a rule I recorded everything I heard and said in the military districts\u2014a precaution against missing some revelatory nugget.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t tell me that was really your first time through a checkpoint,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cNew York\u2019s a long way away.\u201d Meredith turned toward her open window; the wind ruffled her short red hair. \u201cWhat reason would I ever have to come out here?\u201d<\/p>\n
The interchange loomed ahead; I stayed in the left lane as it curved toward the southwest in the shadow of tangled ramps above.<\/p>\n
\u201cCuriosity,\u201d I answered. \u201cYou were a reporter once. You\u2019ve never wanted to see what\u2019s going on out here?\u201d<\/p>\n
Meredith held her gaze out the window and said nothing for several moments. She\u2019d been lost in thought most of the way from Des Moines. Was she from Nebraska? Or maybe somewhere else in the Midwest? I couldn\u2019t remember, and my thoughts drifted down a rabbit hole in consideration as we sat momentarily in silence.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s what I have reporters like you for. So I don\u2019t have to visit the wrong side of military checkpoints and get in Dutch with a bunch of rebels.\u201d<\/p>\n
I heard the animosity in her voice\u2014personal, venomous.<\/p>\n
Wide billboards proclaimed the end of federal jurisdiction and cautioned that anyone proceeding beyond the next exit did so at their own risk.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere you go,\u201d I said as I pointed. \u201cRebel territory.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is this\u2014your sixth trip into a military district?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSixth since you came aboard. But it\u2019s been eight times\u2014nine if you count my trip into Wyoming before Hostetter was assassinated.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWyoming,\u201d Meredith said amidst a hollow gallows chuckle. \u201cFeels like a long time ago. I always forget that you covered the occupation in the state capitol.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWrong place wrong time. It was just a vote recount when I got there.\u201d<\/p>\n
I expected Meredith to continue the conversation but whatever had been dominating her attention since before we reached Omaha still held sway. We drove in silence, and the hours passed. The afternoon sun fell toward the flat horizon. For the first chunk of the drive\u2014the stretch from Omaha to Lincoln\u2014normalcy reigned. We pulled off the freeway in Lincoln, filling up on gas and snacks. Nothing in the small city suggested citizens in rebellion. We received a few curious looks at the gas station\u2014most likely owing to our out of state plates\u2014but only a few. Were there even rebels in the city? I couldn\u2019t remember reading anything about rebel activity in Lincoln\u2014or, for that matter, eastern Nebraska. But obviously there was enough unsecured territory in the state to make the government draw their red line back at the border and around Omaha.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve been trying to remember since the checkpoint,\u201d I said later when we were about twenty minutes west of Lincoln. \u201cAre you from Nebraska?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOmaha. North 60th Avenue.\u201d <\/p>\n
Meredith turned her eyes from the featureless green landscape to me. She was almost smiling; I think the expression caught her by surprise\u2014the idea of simpler, happier times.<\/p>\n
\u201cI loved visiting after I left for college. Just a few blocks to Maple Street and bars and restaurants running the gamut from speakeasies to local breweries.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you still have family there?\u201d<\/p>\n
Meredith turned back to the window, her smile fading.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d she answered after a long time. \u201cYou remember what it was like in Omaha after Hostetter was killed? The protests and National Guard? They were\u2026in the wrong place at the wrong time. A protest that turned violent. One of the sides shot them\u2014I don\u2019t know which.\u201d<\/p>\n
I heard Meredith\u2019s voice start to break near the end of her story, but she shored it up and crushed the emotion before it could escape. Again I waited for her to continue talking. Again she chose silence.
\n
\nInterstate 80 in Nebraska is a pair of black lines cutting across an otherwise flat, green expanse. I\u2019d driven it several times\u2014a few of those trips as a college student long before I had reason to visit the area as a journalist. Once upon a time the 440 mile trip could be counted on for its boredom. Not so since the rebellion. As day transitioned into dusk I watched a trio of military Humvees, complete with mounted guns but no soldiers manning them, speed down the eastbound lanes. An assortment of civilian vehicles, all pickup trucks and SUVs, followed in pursuit about two minutes behind. I counted a dozen vehicles in total, and as they passed us going the opposite direction one of the trucks peeled off from the back of the group and cut across the dirt and grass divider. <\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d<\/p>\n
I let Meredith\u2019s question hang unanswered. I also ignored the foolhardy escape idea I visualized and pulled my SUV off to the side of the road. The federal government could claim they controlled military districts all they wanted, but the truth of it was that if the army wasn\u2019t standing there to enforce federal law it was the rebels who were in charge.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust the rebel equivalent of that National Guard checkpoint in Omaha.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rather than pulling up behind us like a police officer might, the truck drove against traffic, coming at us from the front and eventually swinging in on a curve to sit across the two lanes at an angle and block our way. The man in the driver\u2019s seat turned toward me but didn\u2019t take his hands off the wheel. A woman in the back of the cab poked out the window with a hunting rifle. Likewise two men sat up in the truck bed, one armed with another hunting rifle and one armed with an AR-15.<\/p>\n
\u201cShould we\u2026\u201d Meredith started as her arm extended toward the backseat.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d I grabbed Meredith\u2019s wrist to prevent her from grasping one of the handguns we\u2019d brought along. \u201cJust go along with it. Everything will be fine.\u201d<\/p>\n
The man with the AR-15 hopped out of the truck bed. A second woman, handgun holstered at her hip, walked around from the passenger side.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis happen a lot?\u201d Meredith asked conspiratorially.<\/p>\n
I rolled down my window.<\/p>\n
\u201cDepends on how close you get to active conflicts between rebels and the military.\u201d<\/p>\n
The woman with the handgun made a beeline toward my open window. AR-15 Man held back a little, maintaining an angle where he could cover both me and Meredith through the windshield.<\/p>\n
\u201cSorry if we got too close to something,\u201d I said once the woman was up to the window. \u201cWe\u2019re just passing through.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIowa plates,\u201d the woman said. \u201cYou\u2019re a long way from home. And DC rule.\u201d<\/p>\n
I reached from the steering wheel to the lanyards dangling from the rearview mirror and handed them to the woman.<\/p>\n
\u201cSeriously?\u201d the woman asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d said AR-15 Man as he walked toward the driver\u2019s side.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s media.\u201d The woman added a derisive snort. \u201cWith the Post.\u201d<\/p>\n
AR-15 Man tensed up as he stepped yet closer.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t belong here,\u201d the woman continued. \u201cThe media\u2019s been lying for DC since the campaign\u2014nothing but liberal shills. Turned everyone against Hostetter until some pissed off lib shot him. And then where was your gun outrage when he was shot? Nowhere.\u201d<\/p>\n
James Hostetter. Republican presidential candidate who was assassinated after losing the election. For those who thought Hostetter\u2019s rhetoric had trafficked in the worst kind of sexist, racist, and classist stereotypes his electoral loss wasn\u2019t always enough. American intelligentsia wasn\u2019t necessarily above celebrating the end of a life. The rebels lost Hostetter as their symbolic leader, but his shadow and those celebrations were endless gusts of wind at their backs.<\/p>\n
The woman threw the lanyard in my face and I flinched back\u2014enough movement to get a quick look at Meredith who appeared on the verge of making a horrible decision.<\/p>\n
AR-15 Man stepped closer again.<\/p>\n
\u201cWait a minute,\u201d he said. \u201cI recognize this one. He does a lot of embeds on our side\u2014a lot of interviews with our guys.\u201d<\/p>\n
The woman tossed a look from me to AR-15 Man and back before offering an angry backhanded wave of dismissal and walking off toward the rebel pickup. AR-15 Man stepped up closer.<\/p>\n
\u201cI like your stuff,\u201d he said. \u201cJust telling the story regardless of how your subjects come off. Even back during the Cheyenne occupation. Being skeptical of big media doesn\u2019t always mean not reading it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re headed to Cheyenne,\u201d I said, hoping to take advantage of the little bit of goodwill I\u2019d earned. \u201cAnything we should know about?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot in our neck of the woods. If you\u2019re looking for a place to spend the night, there\u2019s an exit for Grand Detour a ways down\u2014motels and restaurants. It\u2019s nice and quiet.\u201d<\/p>\n
AR-15 Man stepped away after that\u2014rejoining his comrades. Once everyone had returned to their starting places within the pickup it accelerated across the pavement, jumping into the center divide and returning to the eastbound lanes in pursuit of its fellows off in the distance.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have quite the readership,\u201d Meredith answered.<\/p>\n
I couldn\u2019t resist a laugh.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot a bad thing to have a diverse audience.\u201d<\/p>\n
The drive toward Grand Detour proved uneventful. The town itself was further from the interstate than I wanted to go so we stayed at the traveler\u2019s oasis of motels, gas stations, and fast food joints. Our experience of checking in to a motel for the night and grabbing a cheap if overly greasy meal felt no different from cross country trips I\u2019d taken before rebellion broke out.<\/p>\n
Meredith bid me goodnight relatively early. I spent the evening staring at my tablet and hunting down all the news that could be useful for two non-rebels driving through Nebraska toward Wyoming. Not for the first time I second guessed the decision to lengthen our drive by flying into Des Moines rather than into Denver or Omaha. But Omaha\u2019s airport was a source of vital resupply to maintain the military presence there so commercial flights were at a minimum, and despite the fact that Colorado wasn\u2019t considered a military district, Denver was a calm island amidst waves of unrest in surrounding areas. The truth was that cross country travel just wasn\u2019t as simple as it had been two years earlier.<\/p>\n
A sharp knock on my door woke me early the next morning; I\u2019d fallen asleep holding my tablet. We grabbed breakfast and resumed our drive\u2014Cheyenne bound.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you sure about this?\u201d It was the only question I could think of when, hours later, I caught site of smoke plumes rising from the small city\u2019s far edge.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s where my contact said he\u2019d meet us.\u201d<\/p>\n
I\u2019d never given Cheyenne a second thought before the occupation of the state capitol; in all my trips on I-80 prior to that I\u2019d never even stopped in the city. In size and scope Cheyenne looked little more than a way station on a long drive through the Rocky Mountains\u2014a concrete weed in a sea of mostly brown.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe say where we\u2019d meet him?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGet off at state route 212. Just outside the city.\u201d<\/p>\n
The closer I drove, the easier it was to make out details. The smoke originated from the city\u2019s west side where it butted up against Warren Air Force Base. In the rebellion\u2019s initial days\u2014before the president had realized how widespread the problem was\u2014the National Guard had attempted to advance out of the base and secure Cheyenne. The initial push devolved into urban warfare that played badly on TV. After that push fizzled out, though, I couldn\u2019t say as I knew of anything much happening in Cheyenne, so the signs of violence caught me by surprise. I followed Meredith\u2019s directions until we were sitting in a shopping center parking lot. We both stepped out of the car, Meredith to make a phone call and me to stretch my legs.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s on his way,\u201d Meredith announced after a few moments.<\/p>\n
I was only half aware of what Meredith said when she said it. As so often happened when I found myself in more active areas of rebellion I got lost in my own observations. I\u2019d have expected a lunchtime crowd at the shopping center\u2014there wasn\u2019t one. The parking lot was nearly deserted and traffic was sparse. Gunfire echoed from far away, the sound repeated periodically and always coming from the direction of the air force base.<\/p>\n
\u201cLincoln seemed normal,\u201d Meredith said. \u201cWhere we stayed the night, too. This\u2026it\u2019s not the third world but it\u2019s not America, either.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cStanding out here you\u2019d think that.\u201d I meandered away from my editor, warming to my subject. \u201cBut walk into a Wal-Mart\u2014their grocery shelves are all stocked, and they\u2019ve got all the new releases on Blu-ray. Twenty-first century America: you can\u2019t have peace but you can go shopping.\u201d<\/p>\n
A little more meandering.<\/p>\n
\u201cWaste of lives,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s pretty cynical. You don\u2019t think putting down the rebellion is a worthwhile fight?\u201d<\/p>\n
This time I let loose the gallows laughter.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf the rebels could agree that it is a rebellion, sure. They prance around on the knife edge between violent protest and all out insurrection. They can\u2019t even unite in common cause. And the president…The president is too worried about losing a PR fight, appearing weak to Russia, or interrupting military efforts abroad to actually put this thing down. So commerce within the military districts is the same as without. The states still hold elections and have representatives in Congress. There\u2019s nothing worthwhile in fighting if you\u2019re not going to fight to win.\u201d<\/p>\n
Meredith\u2019s reply was swallowed by the sound of a pickup racing through the parking lot on a course straight toward us. I jogged back toward our SUV and reached into the open driver\u2019s side, my fingers extending toward the gun nestled just behind the seat.<\/p>\n
\u201cWait. Rod!\u201d This time Meredith intervened before a weapon could be drawn, grabbing my wrist before I could grab my gun. \u201cThat\u2019s him.\u201d<\/p>\n
The pickup roared to a stop next to our SUV. Meredith\u2019s earlier timidity was nowhere to be found as she walked right up to the driver\u2019s side window and left me, standing between the two vehicles, to watch in silent curiosity.<\/p>\n
\u201cHave any problems getting here?\u201d the driver asked from inside his car.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust a bunch of cowboys in Nebraska who didn\u2019t think much of the press.\u201d<\/p>\n
The driver looked past Meredith as I stepped forward.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis him?\u201d the driver asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cRod Lemon. As requested.\u201d<\/p>\n
The driver climbed out of the pickup but kept his eyes locked on me like some kind of invasive exam. Meredith provided introductions and revealed that the driver, Brad, was her younger brother. He looked the stereotypical farmer\u2014the kind of muscular physique earned doing work rather than frequenting the gym, a permanent tan on his face and arms, windswept brown hair; had Meredith not said otherwise I would never have assumed he and the petite redhead I\u2019d traveled cross country with were related.<\/p>\n
\u201cTrust me,\u201d Meredith urged when I voiced skepticism.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust what am I out here reporting on?\u201d All Meredith had revealed to me was that she had a contact within the rebels who was willing to go on record with something big\u2014something that could change the face of the not-quite-war ripping the country apart. She\u2019d pled ignorance to anything beyond that. Maybe going on faith because Brad was her brother was enough for her.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll explain on the way,\u201d Brad answered. \u201cGrab your gear.\u201d<\/p>\n
Meredith offered a final reassurance, and I did as Brad bid. The two vehicles parted ways moments later, the departure silent save for the enthusiastic sound of Brad\u2019s engine and the punctuating bursts of gunfire in the background. I watched Meredith start on a return course out of the military district.<\/p>\n
I only knew one thing about Brad so, as he drove us through Cheyenne, I began there.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s not just a clich\u00e9. The whole brother versus brother thing\u2014or sister in this case.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDifferent miles on our souls. Maybe if I\u2019d have left too we\u2019d be on the same side. Or if she stayed.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut she still trusts you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve never given her reason not to.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad continued north along 212; the city\u2014such as it was\u2014grew less dense with each half mile.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere are we headed?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI-25. The long way around. We\u2019re staying well clear of the base.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know what\u2019s going on out there?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHotheads trying to cause trouble. Happens every now and then.\u201d Brad warmed to the subject, something of a personality shining through for the first time. \u201cSometimes the soldiers. Sometimes us. Waste of time. They didn\u2019t have the will to take the city before so I doubt they\u2019ll try again, but they\u2019re also not going to let us overrun a base that\u2019s responsible for 150 Minutemen ICBMs.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen why the fighting? In a lot of other places with that kind of equilibrium both sides have been content with a quiet standoff.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe freeway interchange is part of it. Neither side has made any movements to seriously restrict trade\u2014if DC stops trucks going into the military districts it prevents the two firmly loyal coasts from sending goods back and forth, and if we interdict shipments to keep them only for ourselves it would almost certainly force DC\u2019s hand in launching an aggressive anti-insurgency campaign. But even so, each side would rather it be in charge of the major thoroughfares and interchanges. Just in case.<\/p>\n
\u201cAs for the rest\u2014this all started with that protest and occupation of the capitol grounds during the recount. Cheyenne\u2019s a symbol.\u201d<\/p>\n
212 had curved west and I\u2019d hoped to get a closer look at the conflict along the base, but Brad turned onto another state route running north parallel to Interstate 25.<\/p>\n
\u201cSounds like you\u2019re fairly well plugged in. Were you out here during the occupation?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d Brad answered, leavening the syllable as though there was more to follow the single word. I sat in silence as Brad drove on, eventually pulling on to I-25. I turned around, thinking to see something of the events at the base but only finding wisps of faded smoke in the distance.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d Brad repeated. \u201cI was still in Nebraska when everything got rolling. Reading stories like what you were writing about the recount.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know my work?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI was a politics junkie long before that election. I\u2019ve read your stuff. Can\u2019t say I really remember what you wrote about the recount.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cProbably wasn\u2019t my best work. I was filling in for someone else who was assigned but couldn\u2019t go. I didn\u2019t want to be there. Sure, the Democrat winning Wyoming was downright bizarre. But Hostetter had cratered so badly coming out of October that just about anything was conceivable. I didn\u2019t expect to find much of a story.\u201d<\/p>\n
I waited for Brad to continue the exchange but he\u2019d gone from animated and engaged to mute and stone still. How big a Hostetter supporter had he been? I worried that I might have come off as too much of a cheerleader for a particular viewpoint and poisoned the dialogue. My stories aren\u2019t supposed to be about me.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s something under your seat,\u201d Brad said after a few minutes.<\/p>\n
I reached forward and patted at the floor of the car until I could grasp an object. Pulling it out and sitting up, I found myself looking at a dog eared, yellow-edged paperback with a blank black cover. The book was a little taller and wider than a typical paperback and 140 pages thick. I opened it, found I was looking at it upside down, and tried again. There was no title page, no copyright page. One blank page separated the cover from the beginning of the prose.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cRead it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t come here to\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cRead it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad\u2019s outburst left no room for interpretation. I started reading. Written in the first person, the prose dripped with venom from word one. The writer had just received a pardon, and I felt his bristling indignation at not having been afforded a trial to prove the legitimacy of his cause. The anger was too obvious\u2014too intense\u2014to be taken seriously until I read the word \u201csecession.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat the hell is this?\u201d I asked, flipping to the last page in the hope that the mysterious author who hadn\u2019t been revealed at the beginning signed his work at the end. \u201cJefferson Davis? The Jefferson Davis?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFirst and only president of the Confederate States of America. Keep reading.\u201d<\/p>\n
I returned to the first page, picking up where I left off. Every word I read filtered through a near bottomless well of doubt. I refused to get caught up in the emotion that Davis\u2014purportedly Davis\u2014had poured into his writing. The product of a man who\u2019d been defeated but not beaten, the manifesto was first an indictment of the Union for not having the courage to put Davis\u2019 views on display in a trial and then later a call for continued rebellion within the Union lines. The goal of a white man\u2019s republic wasn\u2019t dead to Davis\u2019 way of thinking\u2014it had simply been approached in the wrong way. I slogged through the book for as long as daylight allowed, rolling my eyes in frequent intervals.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is some alt-right fan fiction?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cReal deal.\u201d Brad sounded unfazed by my question\u2014downright serene compared to when he insisted I read the book.<\/p>\n
\u201cA real deal that somehow escaped notice for a century and a half? Jefferson Davis calling for ongoing secretive rebellion would be taught in every class on the Civil War if this were legitimate.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIf it were common knowledge. Davis spent the last years of his life encouraging reconciliation, and he wrote a memoir, The Rise and Fall of the Confederate Government, that came out at the start of that period. What you\u2019re holding was written just after his pardon in 1868. He never published it but he did share copies with others of the Confederate\u2019s angriest partisans. There\u2019s no evidence he ever acted on it, and it\u2019s not hard to believe a man might have a change of heart in 12 years\u2014especially as he gets closer to the end of his life. Regardless, though, of Davis\u2019 intentions when he wrote it or afterward, the people he showed it to believed in it and never wavered from it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Awareness and control of my own bias was a critical part of being able to present a fair retelling of my experiences with rebels, but so often I wanted to scream at them over the absurdity of some of their views. Political disagreements were one thing, but wholesale disbelief of established facts and the occasional racial superiority fetish\u2014that crossed a line that often left me needing a shower. And here my editor had stuck me with her rebel brother who was conjuring up some sort of lost history fantasy in the mold of Tolkien or Martin\u2014just with less magic. It took a few minutes of staring out into the night to reset my emotions.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere are we headed?\u201d I asked at last, my toe dipping back into the water of conversation.<\/p>\n
\u201cBuffalo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m going to need a little bit more than that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNorthern Wyoming. Should be there in thirty minutes or so. We\u2019ll stay there tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy have me read the book?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFor context of what I\u2019m going to tell you\u2014what we did.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou mean the rebels?\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad glanced my way. In the dark I couldn\u2019t translate his expression though I guessed he had bristled at the designation I\u2019d given him. Most rebels hated being called out on what they were\u2014it didn\u2019t jive with their internal thinking\u2014and I usually avoided the term when interacting with them. But I thought Brad needed some grounding if we were going to continue.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d Brad conceded. \u201cCertain rebels. And everyone else who got swept up in something they weren\u2019t aware of.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo what\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLet\u2019s get to Buffalo first.\u201d<\/p>\n
I gave Brad the silence he requested for the remainder of our drive toward the small Wyoming town. The vibe I felt when we arrived was closer to Lincoln than Cheyenne\u2014people in Buffalo looked to be going about their business as though little had changed in the last two years. Brad parked at a motel, checked the two of us in, and then led the way on foot down the street to a restaurant.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow much do you know about the Civil War?\u201d<\/p>\n
The question was Brad\u2019s opening remark after we sat down. I suppressed a sigh\u2014this still wasn\u2019t what I was expecting to discuss.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhatever I can remember from a college history class.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe advantage the Confederates had over today\u2019s rebellion was that even though there was some pro-Union sentiment in the Confederacy it was insignificant. The Confederate states were more or less a united front.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey had slavery to rally around.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cKind of. There was a whole class system at work that even the poorest whites bought into. But the overarching idea was a white man\u2019s republic.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, the author of that alternate history in your car used the phrase more than once.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad bit back his response as the server arrived with our food and drinks. I pressed him further.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat does that book have to do with why I\u2019m here? I don\u2019t write or review fiction.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad\u2019s eyes flicked up toward the server as she finished depositing our orders; I took the hint and waited in silence until she departed our table.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho\u2019d you vote for?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI asked you about the book not\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWho\u2019d you vote for?\u201d Brad repeated.<\/p>\n
That time my sigh was audible.<\/p>\n
\u201cI live in New York City. I voted for exactly who you think I voted for. You?\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad had dug into his meal while I answered. A bite of potato in his mouth, he was cutting a piece off his bleeding rare steak when I spoke, and I didn\u2019t receive an answer\u2014not that it was ever in doubt\u2014until Brad finished chewing.<\/p>\n
\u201cHostetter.\u201d<\/p>\n
I heard in that single word a regret I\u2019d never heard from a rebel\u2014and not just the regret of somehow being let down by the man, but the understanding that somehow the failure was inevitable and that Brad had known it even as he voted.<\/p>\n
\u201cI tried ignoring the nasty, inflammatory rhetoric and did my best not to think about what voting for him said about me. I listened to all the talk from his surrogates about what his policies would mean, and I wanted to believe that my folks and I would be better off with him than with four more years of what hadn\u2019t been helping us for the last eight. And yes I knew I was rolling around in the mud hoping that somehow I\u2019d emerge cleaner.\u201d<\/p>\n
No two interviews were ever the same, but I\u2019d found subjects with similar backgrounds often fell within a predictable range. So it had been with most all the rebels I\u2019d met\u2014different points within a common shared space. Brad\u2019s answer placed him far beyond that spectrum.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo why get caught up in the rebellion if you knew how toxic he was? I mean\u2014fine, vote for him. But from what you\u2019ve told me you\u2019ve gotten more involved since the election\u2014not less.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad worked at his steak and potato\u2014a delay that reminded me of the chicken and rice growing cold in front of me.<\/p>\n
\u201cI knew people that believed Hostetter when he said the election would be rigged. And if you had heard the things those people said about the other side\u2014the disgusting vitriol\u2026 But I never believed what he was saying. How do you rig the election independently in all the swing states? Then Hostetter lost Wyoming. And I don\u2019t care how big a wave election it was going to be\u2014it was Wyoming.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s not like Wyoming put it over the top,\u201d I answered. \u201cHostetter would have lost either way.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSure. But still weird. And close enough for an automatic recount. You were there\u2014as soon as the recount started the original results looked suspect. It made you think\u2014if the result could be manipulated in a solid red state like Wyoming with Republican state officials, what might have happened in all the others? Hostetter, meanwhile, had conceded but as soon as news about Wyoming is released he starts egging everyone on again. Poisoning the well. You get protesters occupying Wyoming\u2019s capitol building. You get protests in other states. Then Hostetter is shot. It was a snowball that became an avalanche\u2014it was hard to keep ignoring what he\u2019d been saying. Even so, if that had been the only thing I probably would have stayed in Omaha.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid Meredith tell you about our parents? I was with them when it happened. I don\u2019t know who fired the shots. But the violence broke out that day because the National Guard opened fire on a protest. I know that for certain because I saw it. We were out shopping and drove too close to the protesters\u2019 path. They were angry people. Furious. If they hadn\u2019t been diehards to begin with the trouble in Wyoming, Hostetter\u2019s murder, and the federal government\u2019s efforts to crush \u2018anti-government activists\u2019 had turned them into diehards. It\u2019s amazing how loud a group of angry people can be. The protestors were marching and the National Guard had established a perimeter; you could feel in the air that the world was just a little bit off\u2014a little bit wrong. We tried to get away from the protest but there was nowhere to go. We got out of the car, trying to get inside somewhere and away from the fray. Then it happened.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad reached for his beer, taking a long pull from the pint glass. When he set the glass back down his eyes stayed fixed on it, staring at something beyond the object more than looking at it.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know if there was an order to fire or if one person got nervous. Someone fired into the crowd of protesters. Then they all fired into the crowd of protesters. I wouldn\u2019t have thought you could hear people screaming amidst that much gunfire, but you can. The protesters ran in every direction, the group of them seeming to explode under the assault. For a few moments it was a one-sided massacre. Then some of the protesters started shooting back. Mom and dad and I\u2014we ran. Heads down and screaming we ran. But there were too many other people and we were separated.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad reached for his beer again but didn\u2019t quite bring it to his mouth.<\/p>\n
\u201cFifteen minutes. They say the whole thing lasted fifteen minutes. Felt like an eternity. Felt like hell. Then I found my parents\u2019 bodies and realized it was.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad downed his beer and stood up. He tossed some money out from his pocket.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re headed up to Billings tomorrow. I\u2019ll wake you up when it\u2019s time to go.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad\u2019s words echoed in my head long after he\u2019d gone\u2014ghostly sounds that matched the ashen look on his face. If that book he\u2019d given me to read was context just as he said, then I\u2019d received a great deal more in our conversation over dinner. But context for what? I wiled away the rest of the night alone and found, when I returned to my room, that Brad had left the dubious Davis manifesto on my bed.<\/p>\n
We left early the next morning. I was tired of context. I wanted whatever story Brad thought he had to give.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo far we\u2019ve talked about whom you voted for and what pushed you toward the rebellion,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd I\u2019ve read Jefferson Davis\u2019 long lost manifesto. What does that have to do with why I\u2019m here?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou finished the book?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI did. Davis is all but endorsing the creation of a secret society within the Union\u2014a plan to win through long term deception and corruption what couldn\u2019t be won through force of arms. It\u2019s ludicrous.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot so ludicrous. Think of how Southern politics solidified after the war. The Greys\u2014that\u2019s what Davis\u2019 believers have called themselves\u2014dominated a wing of the Democratic Party. You remember George Wallace?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAvowed segregationist governor who ran for president\u2014yes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe was a Grey. But Wallace\u2019s failure and the decision of Democratic leadership to embrace civil rights convinced the Greys that they needed a new approach and a new home. Enter Nixon\u2019s Southern Strategy.\u201d<\/p>\n
I laughed. I had to\u2014there was just no other option. The Greys with these powerful politicians in their pocket\u2014Brad was straying into Illuminati territory.<\/p>\n
\u201cRichard Nixon\u2014he was one of these secret adherents to Davis\u2019 lost manifesto? You should write fiction\u2014alternate history. You\u2019d be good at it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad glanced at me with a look cold to the point of freezing. He said nothing. I composed myself.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe Southern Strategy,\u201d I said. \u201cThe Republican focus on winning in the Electoral College by winning the entirety of the South. What about it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe Greys jumped ship to the Republican Party. They got in with Nixon\u2019s campaign. They were more subtle this time, fomenting the Southern Strategy\u2014an implicitly racist tactic that focused on the South\u2019s dominant white population. The strategy worked so well for Nixon that it\u2019s been a cornerstone of Republican strategy since. In response the Democrats diversified, tailoring arguments to every minority group they could. That focus\u2014and Nixon\u2019s impeachment\u2014gave the Democrats the White House three terms in a row and gave the Greys the ability to push the GOP, in desperate times, to slowly make the Southern Strategy more explicit. Like a frog in water brought to boil, most Republican voters and politicians didn\u2019t realize what was happening to their party until it was too late. And a few elections later the Greys find their perfect candidate.\u201d<\/p>\n
I can\u2019t pinpoint the moment my brain decided Brad\u2019s tale was plausible, but at some point I lost the urge to laugh.<\/p>\n
\u201cWas Hostetter one of these Greys?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJust a patsy that ran for president. The Greys, by now wielding a lot of influence on the right, maneuvered behind the scenes to make him the Republican nominee. Hostetter\u2019s outsider resume, penchant for saying anything no matter how inflammatory, dubious policy ideas\u2014it was a dog whistle piped through a loud speaker that the Greys could use to manipulate angry, disaffected voters while staying close enough to Republican tenets to hold the party faithful.\u201d<\/p>\n
We passed a sign; Billings was an hour away.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know there\u2019s no way that I can write this,\u201d I said. \u201cEven if I believed it\u2014if I hand this story to Meredith she\u2019ll chuck it in a paper shredder.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad didn\u2019t speak, but neither did he direct that cold and unforgiving glare at me. What I saw of his expression reminded me of that same regret I\u2019d felt the night before. Assuming that what Brad was telling me was real\u2014or that at the very least he believed it\u2014I found myself wondering whether the regret I sensed was rooted in sharing with me what he was sharing or in appearing to be the sort of person the Greys might recruit in the first place.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy are we going to Billings?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause you need evidence.\u201d<\/p>\n
That proved the end of the interview for the rest of our drive north. I asked a few more questions, the first of which was what the Grey\u2019s backup strategy had been in the likely event that Hostetter lost. I expected the answer to be something like the occupation of Wyoming\u2019s capitol building\u2014a piecemeal attempt at opposition that got lucky when the situation spiraled out of control. But Brad wasn\u2019t in an answering mood.<\/p>\n
As Brad took an exit on the eastern edge of Billings, I turned my attention to the world beyond the car window. As was the case in Lincoln and Buffalo people seemed to be going about their business as usual.
\nI rolled down the window, listening for signs of battle like those in Cheyenne but heard nothing. Billings possessed one standout feature, though\u2014everywhere I looked I saw signs and flags either in support of the rebels or in opposition to the president. Montana might be quiet so far as conflict went, but it offered strong opinions.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m going to park,\u201d Brad said. \u201cKeep that press lanyard visible. And stay in the car.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad parked along a curb a few blocks hence. He climbed down from the pickup\u2019s cab and walked toward a house. Brad knocked on the door, stepping inside after an older man opened it for him. I watched and waited. In that moment my thoughts drifted back to Meredith\u2014just what had my editor embroiled me in? Presumably she\u2019d been promised some kind of story, and I suppose because it was her brother who did the promising she\u2019d believed him. But I\u2019d seen no story besides a broken, mournful man who\u2019d invented a fairy tale to justify choices he regretted.<\/p>\n
Gunshots rang out from inside the house, interrupting my navel gazing. The front door flew open and out ran Brad, a bag slung over his shoulder and a black pistol in his right hand. His left hand pressed against his side as his legs pumped.<\/p>\n
\u201cDrive!\u201d<\/p>\n
A stupefied expression was my only response.<\/p>\n
\u201cDrive!\u201d he repeated.<\/p>\n
My brain caught up to the moment at hand. I slid across the seat and started the car as Brad ripped open the passenger door and climbed into the cab before falling across the seat. My foot found the gas pedal and slammed against it.<\/p>\n
\u201cBack to I-90,\u201d Brad said amidst heavy breathing.<\/p>\n
I flipped a U-turn at the first intersection and sped back the way we\u2019d come. By that point the older man who\u2019d greeted Brad at the front door was outside and shooting\u2014vaguely but without success\u2014in our direction.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat did you do?\u201d I screamed the question.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust drive. I-90 east. Get off at Old US 87. They\u2019re going to be after us. We need to stay off the interstate.\u201d<\/p>\n
A list of questions sat on my tongue, but the time for them wasn\u2019t in the middle of a desperate escape from whatever fury Brad had brought down upon us. I drove as directed. It wasn\u2019t until we reached the onramp for the freeway that I saw vehicles in pursuit\u2014two cars, both of them old Crown Victorias that had spent former lives as cop cars.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019ve got company.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad pushed himself up which gave me the first look at his blood stained shirt and the truck\u2019s blood stained upholstery. Brad groaned as he reached behind the seat and retrieved a .308 hunting rifle.<\/p>\n
\u201cKeep us steady,\u201d he choked out while sliding open the back window.<\/p>\n
Absent any other options I endeavored to do as Brad asked. Uneven pavement wasn\u2019t making my job any easier, but I kept the truck on a straight line as best I could. Single shots rang out in quick succession. I glanced toward Brad but couldn\u2019t take my eyes off the road long enough to see what he was aiming at. I watched my driver\u2019s side mirror, practically staring at the two cars in pursuit. They adjusted their position, moving to run side by side as they chased us. I drifted into the middle of the interstate to keep either one from accelerating next to us and to give Brad a clearer shot at both.<\/p>\n
Brad continued firing. Shot after shot achieved nothing until at long last he sunk two rounds into one of the cars\u2019 engine blocks. That car fell behind and Brad turned his attention to the second one, eventually breaking the windshield and hitting the driver. I couldn\u2019t tell if it was a fatal shot, but it was enough to send the Crown Victoria into a swerve toward the right shoulder.<\/p>\n
Brad dropped back down, his rifle slipping awkwardly behind the seat. The exit for Old US 87 came up and I swerved toward it, slamming the brakes so I could safely turn right on to the highway.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe need to get you to a hospital.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad groaned and shifted on the seat, forcing himself upright.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe will,\u201d he answered. \u201cEventually. Just keep driving.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat did you do? What was in that house?\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad breathed deep and loud for several seconds. I wondered if I was going to get an answer.<\/p>\n
\u201cI told you the Greys were about messaging and manipulation,\u201d Brad finally said, practically exhaling the words. \u201cThey didn\u2019t need a backup plan when Hostetter lost. They hoped he would. They expected a Hostetter administration would be a bumbling, disorganized mess that would turn people fast against him. They only wanted him to put people in the right frame of mind. The bag\u2014the bag was the next part of the plan.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad reached to the wheel, holding it steady as we came to a straightaway.<\/p>\n
\u201cLook.\u201d<\/p>\n
I reached toward the duffel Brad had taken from his house. The most conspicuous item was a chrome handgun with a black grip. Several thumb drives rattled around with it.<\/p>\n
\u201cHostetter\u2019s behavior made his victory impossible,\u201d Brad said as I retook the wheel, \u201cbut not before he gave the Greys their opening. Davis\u2019 manifesto told them to build their republic from the grassroots up\u2014to make the followers rather than the leaders break the Union. We\u2019ve all let politics divide and subdivide us until common cause seems too difficult. We self-sort and distrust those who disagree. Hostetter\u2019s purpose was to convince enough people he could never legitimately lose.\u201d<\/p>\n
The last few words faded as Brad spoke them. He shifted on the seat, adjusting how he held his side. He just sat and breathed for a while before he continued.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe Greys have people in state government. Since they couldn\u2019t win the election, they destroyed its legitimacy. The reason no one could find proof that the Democrats rigged Wyoming even with all the irregularities was because the Greys had thrown the state for them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWait. Hostetter\u2019s people rigged Wyoming?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd made it obvious that it was rigged,\u201d whispered Brad. \u201cYes. That\u2019s what\u2019s on the thumb drives.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe Greys were counting on Hostetter\u2019s supporters\u2019 outrage.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad stopped talking. He continued to pale. He retained consciousness, but I could tell he wasn\u2019t applying much pressure to his wound. When I pulled off to the shoulder Brad stared at me in confusion and curiosity. I retrieved two shirts from my bag behind the seat. The first I pressed against Brad\u2019s side and urged him to hold it firm in place. The second I ripped along one side to make wider and then tied the ruined garment around Brad so the makeshift bandage would stay tight in place. With Brad a little better off, I pulled up the GPS on my phone and found a hospital.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust hang on for another forty minutes,\u201d I said as I pulled back into the lanes.<\/p>\n
Brad mumbled his assent.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo that\u2019s it? Your Greys rigged Wyoming and got lucky when someone shot Hostetter?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI was a fool,\u201d Brad whispered. \u201cYear after year where I fell behind. The election. My parents. The spiral never found bottom. Weight on my chest as I drifted\u2014somewhere along the line it made me angry. I chased that anger to Wyoming, to the rebellion. I chased it until a Grey took me for a kindred spirit and let me in on the secret. I saw something dark and perverse inside her and the others\u2014an anger without boundary or reason. I worried if I stayed angry long enough\u2026what I might have let myself become\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
Brad kept rambling like that for most of our drive\u2014not quite delirious but unable or unwilling to carry on a conversation. I pushed the pickup as hard as I could on that old road until we made it to a town called Hardin and a small county hospital.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt wasn\u2019t luck.\u201d Brad gripped hard to lucidity as I pulled in, a breathy urgency behind his words. <\/p>\n
\u201cHostetter. The rigged election in Wyoming gave people a grievance. But the Greys wanted a martyr. That man I just robbed\u2014he killed Hostetter. With that gun. Using Davis\u2019 own plan he\u2019s ginned up enough popular support to try birthing a second white man\u2019s republic. And the longer we live in what seems like a split country\u2014the more comfortable we get\u2014the likelier it will stay that way.\u201d<\/p>\n
I parked in front of the emergency entrance and ran to find help. Doctors and nurses poured Brad out of the pickup onto a gurney. I followed behind as they rushed him inside.<\/p>\n
\u201cKeep the pickup,\u201d Brad said as I chased him down the aisle. \u201cGet back home. Give my sister a hell of a story. They\u2019ve all been played\u2014make them see.\u201d<\/p>\n
That was the last I saw of Brad\u2014though he did pull through. They wheeled him further into the hospital, and I jumped back into his pickup\u2014driving off before anyone could ask me questions. Heat radiated off the stolen bag, and I could barely keep my eyes off it. I spent that entire drive out of the military district considering the implications of Brad\u2019s tale and realizing I no longer doubted it. Yes the Greys had manipulated us. But in our dismissal of each other we\u2019d left ourselves fertile ground for them. The truth had rescued Brad from his anger; for my whole drive home I hoped the rest of us weren\u2019t so far gone that the truth couldn\u2019t save us as well.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The guardsman pinched my passport and driver\u2019s license between his thumb and forefinger, and I couldn\u2019t help but imagine him saying \u201cPapers, please\u201d before letting me continue into the wilds of Nebraska. The guardsman\u2019s eyes flitted back and forth between the pictures purporting to represent Rod Lemon and the actual Rod Lemon seated behind the …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":62477,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-107504","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/107504","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/62477"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=107504"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/107504\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":139470,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/107504\/revisions\/139470"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=107504"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=107504"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=107504"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}