·         Hi everyone! Stephen Wormwood here, thanks for clicking! Feedback and criticism is always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com. As always hope you enjoy reading this and please consider donating to Nifty if you can.

 

·         Please read some of my other stories on Nifty: Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).

 

 

**********

 

9. UTAH

 

**********

 

I can feel the fear hang heavy on the water

Glinting sharply with the pale moonlight

Mothers hold on tightly to your children

The waves are breaking violently tonight

 

Seabirds fly the salty wind

East to South – North to West

Can we go, as they go, across the borderlines?

 

I hear yelling, I hear crying, I hear praying

As the ocean threatens us on all four sides

The water rises deeper every minute

This vessel cannot bear the burden of our load

 

Seabirds fly the salty wind

East to South – North to West

Can we go, as they go, across the borderlines?

 

One by one the children have grown silent

From their mother's arms, they float away

The roaring sea will wash our quiet bodies

Upon the foreign shore, but our souls will find a way

 

-      Alela Diane

 

 

**********

 

The caravan of the Exiles drove northwest on the US-50, rolling first through Penrose and then Cañon City, both of which were scouted out ahead of time for trouble. It was a smart tactic for such a large group – 1,597 people at last count – they weren't a ragtag bunch. They followed Salvatore's orders, kept their discipline, maintained the pace, watched out for punctures, etc. Due to its massive size the convoy was slow moving and cumbersome (during the ride west Kennedy told me they'd been on the road for nine days) but its organization was perfect – like the Republic of Denver on wheels. It had no `military' wing like the Black Bandanas or the 2^nd Battalion, every exile over 18 was allowed their own gun for protection, every gun-carrier did a stint on watch duty, every watcher got to sleep it off the next day, whether encamped or on the road.

 

I was impressed. I was lost in my own head and hurting, that was true, but stuck in the backseat of that old beatdown LaSabre with nothing better to do than stare out the window, thinking about what I was seeing kept my mind occupied.

 

So, I started making notes.

 

There was a notepad and pen in my pack. I took them out and put one to the other, scribbling. Names. Dates. Times. Groups. Events. Facts. Rumors. I wrote about Polk and about my Dad, Paster Evans, and the Black Bandanas. I wrote about Fort Collins. I wrote about Denver. I wrote about Ned, Sarah, and Tom Cherry, about the Republic and the Foragers and the 2^nd Battalion and Ralph Walsh. I wrote about Wuhrer, his fucked-up son Hunter, and the 55ers. I wrote about the Exiles as well.

 

I don't know why I did it. Maybe just to pass the time? Distract myself from my broken heart? Maybe. But the more I thought about things the more I realized they shouldn't be forgotten. And they would be if I left them to memory.

 

Why did that matter then?

 

I know why it matters now, I guess, but why back then? Why did it matter what we remembered? As far as anyone knew humanity would be extinct within the next eighty or so years (curtesy of the GFC). I knew that. Everyone did. So, what was the point? I couldn't tell you. But I wrote. From Cañon City up the 9 through Hartsel, Fairplay, and Breckenridge, and onward through the mountain trail to the gigantic Dillon Reservoir, where word came down the column that Salvatore ordered a stop, and slowly the 1.4-mile-long caravan came to rest. Then, by the hundreds, the Exiles emerged from their cars and vans and pick-ups and made their way to the shore. Word moved quickly around the crowds that Salvatore had given them two hours for a break – and no one wasted it.

 

The Exiles refilled their canteens, watered their horses, washed clothes, cleaned wounds, bathed, etc. I didn't want to stop writing... but Kennedy warned me to get clean before I "stunk out the car" so I followed him down to the water. It did look good that day, I can't lie to you. I watched Kennedy strip down to his boxers and toss himself into the lake like a schoolkid. I felt the urge to join him. I loved swimming. But Moni warned me not to get my bandages wet, so I just found a free spot by the lakeshore, took off my shirt, took out some old soap and a loofah from my knapsack, lathered up a froth, and sponged the hard dirt and crusty blood from my skin.

 

It did feel good to get clean.

 

But then... looking out at the waters of the Dillon Reservoir made me think of what I almost did back in the Meredith Reservoir, and I freaked myself out. I grabbed my clothes and pack, walked back to the car, got dressed alone, and waited for Kennedy to come back. Two hours later, the exiles slowly returned to the convoy and honked their horns for the stragglers to keep up, Kennedy being one of them. But he came back from the shoreside smiling, and in a far better mood than he started the day with, which was a plus.

 

Once the convoy hit the road again, it didn't stop until the sun began to set.

 

We'd crossed over onto the I-70 at Frisco and followed it south until it twisted west through the heart of White River National Forest. Man, that was a sight. Ferns and oaks tall as a house. So much greenery, even saw a few bears running away into the foliage. We rolled due west through dust clouds and exhaust of our making, passing through the rusted ghost towns of Glenwood Springs and New Castle, then veering north at Rifle on the 13. Kennedy had the map out as he drove, smoothed out over the empty passenger side seat, and openly wondered why the convoy wasn't following the I-70 through Grand Junction; the Colorado-Utah border was only about 35 miles out from it.

 

But I knew.

 

It was a city, a small one, but a city none the less and Salvatore wanted to avoid it – Travis and the scouts probably reported something suspicious. The Exiles had firepower, but it was obvious they weren't fighters. Some of them had never held a gun before in their lives, and the ones who did only ever aimed it at rabbits or target posters. Violence was their last resort – for their own sake, it had to be.

 

So, the convoy headed north for another forty miles before turning northwest again at the abandoned town of Meeker, pulling out onto the 64 to roll through forests and fields and more empty ruins like Angora, Rangely, and then on to Dinosaur, where the road joined the US-40, and we finally (and uneventfully) crossed the border into Utah.

 

The landscape around us gradually transformed from mountains and forests to craggy planes and dusty slopes. Everything grew browner, darker, rockier. 20 miles later (when the sun now began to set) we crossed a crummy bridge over the dirty Green River to the outskirts of a town called Jensen. I watched a rusty old sign for it fly past my window as the column up ahead slowed down to a stop. Kennedy shut off the engine. The vehicles behind us followed suit. And then the whole caravan sat there for what felt like hours until Travis and some of the other men on horseback rode down the length of the column to spread news (and orders). Mildrith's shoed hooves clopped up to the LaSabre as Kennedy rolled the window down.

 

"You two okay?" Asked Travis.

 

"We're fine," Kennedy pointed ahead. "What's going on up there?"

 

"Jensen's occupied. No militias, no crazy people, just ordinary folk by the look of it. But they're protected. They've got a car wall and shooters on roosts. Salvatore's struck a deal with them – they say they'll let us pass for some food and fuel. A few of the boys are rounding it up now," He eyed the darkening sky. "Looks like we're camping under the stars tonight."

 

**********

For their late start, the moon hit its peak before the Exiles constructed a new camp, but by now they were old hands at it. Jay watched a thousand tents rise within a few hours as he helped Kennedy pitch their own for the night. They built a cookfire just outside it; clearing a little pit of earth, surrounding it with stones, heaping it with kindling, fixing up a grill, then setting a fire to fry a catfish some of the other exiles caught. Jay kept an eye on the fire and rolled out his sleeping bag as Kennedy took a tin bucket from the trunk and went down to the Green River to fill it. The blonde wasn't one for weapons, but he took a 9mm with him. There were other Exiles camped out by the river, but he wasn't taking any chances and Jay didn't blame him. Jay peeled a spud from the camp rations, cut it into slices and fried them alongside the catfish. There were paper plates and plastic cutlery pilfered from old restaurants in Pueblo – Jay set three out. One for him, one for Kennedy, one for Travis – but Travis was late finding their tent that night, so he and Kennedy ate alone.

 

The catfish was good.

 

The company was... fine.

 

Kennedy didn't talk much that night. Not to be rude (surprisingly) but because he was distracted, probably by Travis' late return. It was difficult to see the car wall from the Exiles' camp (especially with all the smoke trails floating up from their collective fires) but its steel-reinforced watchtowers were unmistakable. Jay counted ten of them across a half mile stretch – and at least six were manned judging by the single torch that lit each occupied roost. The townspeople of Jensen were not welcoming of outsiders. Kennedy seemed to see a threat in that, but Jay knew better. He'd hidden behind Polk's car wall for most of his life, he knew fear when he saw it. Jensen was as scared of the Exiles as the Exiles were wary of Jensen.

 

Eventually Jay got tired of waiting for Travis. He wished Kennedy goodnight, undressed right down to his boxers (even in the dead of night it was still hot as hell out there), and crawled into his sleeping bag for some rest. He nodded off at some point and dreamt of nothing.

 

It was some boot steps two or three hours later that woke him up.

 

Jay, half awake and half asleep, stirred lightly as a dark figure with a swinging oil lantern in hand quietly picked his way through the dense honeycomb of tents and campsites that made up the Exiles' encampment. Most of its fires were squelched and a chorus of dog barks, snoring, farting, and coughing defiled its silence.

 

It was Travis.

 

He paused as he passed by Jay's sleeping bag, staring down quizzically, not knowing the boy was half-awake, then opened the flap and smuggled himself inside. The sudden addition of light cast silhouettes against the tent wall – a short-haired tall one and a long-haired short one.

 

Jay heard a sigh of relief. "Where were you? We made supper."

 

"Why is Jay sleeping outside?" Said Travis.

 

Kennedy shook his head. "He said he wanted to, who cares, where were you?"

 

"Sorry," Travis' silhouette sat down and pulled off its boots. "We took the horses and did a quick recon of the wall. It's a big one. Goes all the way down to Horseshoe Bend. We're only getting through this one way, and its cost us a third of our rations."

 

"I thought..."

 

"You thought what?"

 

Kennedy's silhouette lowered its head. Loose tresses of his hair lulled about his shoulders. The Dutch braid was gone now (it came untied at Dillon Reservoir). "...I was just worried, that's all."

 

"Hey. I'm fine. Okay? Right as rain. Just a little late, that's all."

 

"Okay."

 

A brief silence. Then, a ruffle as Travis pulled a hip flask from his denim pocket, took a swig, then passed it to Kennedy who took a longer one and belched. "Shit! Where'd you get liquor?"

 

"One of the boys found a stash in Pueblo," said the older man. "Salvatore wants to crack it all open when we finally make it to the W.USA."

 

Kennedy sighed. "...Speaking of. Have you thought about where you're going to settle?"

 

"C'mon, we've been over this. Oregon or Washington, one of the two. Salvatore says there's fewer restrictions out there, more freedom to roam and hunt and grow food. Sounds right up my alley."

 

"Cities are safer."

 

Travis shook his head. "Not when they fall apart."

 

"So... that's it? We just... we just go our separate ways?"

 

"...You said you wanted to go to LA, remember? What did you expect us to do?"

 

Silence.

 

And then Jay watched the two shadows as they sat facing each other, pensively. Then the shorter one leaned forward slightly, sighing, until the taller one pulled back sharply. "Ken, stop. I thought we put this behind us."

 

Kennedy didn't listen. He crossed his arms over his stomach and yanked off his Dead Kennedys shirt, tossing it to the corner as he lunged forward and mounted Travis by the thighs, cupping his cheeks and pulling their lips together. Joint moans escaped the soft kiss, the two of them, lost in each other, until it grew passionate and demanding, Travis tugging off his own shirt as a whimpering Kennedy parted lips with the Georgian and thrust them at his neck, dropping kiss after kiss along the older man's muscular throat. Travis' head tilted back as Kennedy's hands went for his belt buckle, yanking it open, and Travis did the same, growling, and impatient, shoving their lips together again and jostling out of their pants and boxers. Cushioned by their clothes, Kennedy climbed on top of Travis again, his five stiff inches dripping with pre-cum between their stomachs as he reached behind his back with nimble, well-practiced fingers and guided Travis' thick, veiny girth towards the cleft of his ass – then slid all the way down it like a pole. Kennedy bottomed out at Travis' tree-truck thighs and cried out.

 

"Oh, fuck!" He moaned. "Baby, c'mon. Fuck me."

 

Blood suddenly rushed to Jay's cheeks and crotch as one silhouette rode the other, moaning and grinding. He looked away, feeling guilty, then...

 

**********

 

The weird thing was we were similar, Kennedy and me.

 

I didn't know much about him at the time, but I know what I know now. He was born in a town called Cornelia, in Georgia, to two very religious parents convinced that the prophesied Day of Judgment was nigh. So, when they discovered a stash of illicit magazines in their young son's bedroom that had a curious lack of women in them, they didn't take it kindly. They beat him, preached at him, shamed him, and then beat him some more. When it was too much, he packed some clothes, some stolen money, a toothbrush, and his father's .44 Smith and Wesson 29 into a suitcase and ran away.

 

`I hit the road and went south,' he'd tell me. `Tried to flag a ride a couple of times. No one picked me up, except for this one guy...'

 

Kennedy couldn't remember his name.

 

He was just a trucker in a tweed vest, driving down from Spartanburg with a shipment of generator units bound for a warehouse in Atlanta; tall as all hell, muscled as all hell, with a bright red BUCHANAN '92 cap and big bushy black beard pepper-grained by kernels of grey hair. A crucifix-shaped car freshener swung from his rear view as JESUS IS MY SHEPHERD blared out from his radio. The year was 2006, the last year of the Occupation in Georgia.

 

Kennedy thumbed for a ride.

 

The trucker saw him. Smiled. Pulled over. Told him `Climb up the running boards and hop in the cab!' And he did. And he was a nice man, at first. Asked him how he was doing, if everything was okay, if his parents knew where he was, the whole nine yards. There was a military checkpoint along every mile of the I-985 and every time he stopped to show the soldiers his license, registration, and paperwork he introduced Kennedy as his `nephew'. The trucker even took him to a Dairy Queen for a Stackburger and shake. But then he pulled off the interstate somewhere near Gainsville and rolled the truck to a stop in a dirt field. And he turned to Kennedy with a greasy little smirk... and unzipped his pants until a stiff, five-and-a-half-inch rod swung out. And then that trucker calmly informed Kennedy that he wasn't going any further until the boy `took care' of it.

 

He was 12, at the time. Just like I was.

 

Six minutes later, the satisfied trucker tucked his spent cock back into his pants and pulled his rig back onto the I-985, then drove the rest of the way to Atlanta, where Kennedy suddenly found himself homeless and more scared than he'd ever been in his life. But the trucker taught him something.

 

"Ain't no shortage of chasers or pedos or closet cases in the Theonomy," Kennedy would say. "There never was. They're all hypocrites, all perverts, the farthest thing from God you'll ever meet. They'll shove you over a table, fuck you dizzy, then call YOU the faggot. And they love naïve little boys who don't know any better."

 

Back during the Occupation, you needed a work permit to get a job, and if you were under the age of 18, you needed your parents to sign off on it. That wasn't an option for Kennedy. And he was hungry, thirsty, scared. He needed a roof over his head. He needed money. So, he made it the only way he could.

 

"I never had a pimp," He'd tell me with an air of pride. "Had some close calls with some mean fucking johns, even caught a beating or two but nothing I couldn't handle. Everything I made I kept. Never caught AIDS, never touched drugs, never got raped again. I survived."

 

By the time he turned 18 and found `legitimate' work in a Buckhead Diner, the Theonomy was in full swing. He'd met Travis a year earlier, 2011, and they'd been dating ever since. And they were happy, in a way. They lived together by pretending to be brothers (they were both blonde after all) and loving each other in secret, but as things in Georgia got worse – police raids, identity checks, lynchings, public stonings – they made plans to flee. Their time was borrowed, and the Sword of Damocles would fall, one way or another. They had to get out.

 

"We walked all the way from Atlanta to St. Louis," That was where rumors of a resistance movement were strongest. "Travis had an old contact there who put us in touch with Salvatore and long story short they helped a bunch of us get out."

 

In a way, our stories could've have been more different. I wasn't a prostitute. My Dad wasn't an extremist. The boy I loved didn't love me back. But in other ways, we were kind of similar. We both grew up in a closed off, hyper-religious place. We were both taken advantage of by screwed up men. We were both fags... and we both wanted to be safe.

 

Safe.

 

That night, when Travis and Kennedy slept together, I felt... weird to be there, so I grabbed my pen and pad, and went back to the caravan where the LaSabre sat silently. I climbed inside, opened the windows for some fresh air, laid down over the back seat, and I wrote something. Something that I've been trying to live by ever since. I wrote want I wanted in life.

 

I wrote...

 

"I want to be free. I want to know more about this world, about how it works and who's in charge. I want to know how it got so fucked up, about everything that went wrong and what could've been done differently. I want to be able to know what comes next. I want to be with someone who loves me. I want to be kissed. And I want to be safe."

 

Safe.

 

If the thought hit me a week earlier – write what you want – it would've been one word. One name. But he was gone now, entombed in the annals of my memory, where he deserved nothing more than to wither and die. But I thought of Ralph Walsh and the recorder I buried at his wife's grave – and I recalled the horrors that I saw, and the horrors that Kennedy and Travis and Salvatore tell me about – and I realized that those memories cannot be forgotten.

 

We are all infertile.

 

I am the youngest person I have ever met.

 

When my generation grows old and dies the human race will die with it.

 

There shouldn't be any point to this.

 

BUT THERE IS.

 

Like I said before, telling you these things, whoever you are, is catharsis. But it's also testament. No one should be allowed to forget who we are or what we've done. Pastor Evans, Hunter, Wuhrer, the 55ers, the Foragers, Tom Cherry, Gadley and the Theonomy, and yes, Parker Fucking Evans. All of them. Let my testament be a monument to their evil. And may you never forget it.

 

*

 

After passing through Jensen the rest of our journey westward was uneventful. We headed westward by the 191 from Vernal, then bore north along Route 6 to the outskirts of the abandoned city of Provo, then southwest to Delta and due west along Route 50 until the sunfall. Salvatore called for a camp and the Exiles followed his directives. That massive procession of vehicles came to a stop once more and its people poured out to pitch their tents, set their fires, and dig their latrines. Teams of men took horses and buckets to Sevier Lake, which lay less than a half-hour's walk from the camp and brought back water to wash with (for those too tired to walk) as well as fish to eat. There was a jubilant mood in the air. Even Salvatore cracked a smile as his people built one big bonfire and gathered around it for a celebration. Travis and the scouts (those not on watch duty around the camp) brought out the stash of old liquor they found in Pueblo and shared it out to everyone. Catfish, salmon, deer stakes and potato hash were served on paper plates. Two musicians from Nashville took out a fiddle and harpsicord. There was dancing, and singing, and laughter, and tears. Joyous tears. Couples wed and unwed cuddled up beneath the stars. Travis wrapped his arm around Kennedy's shoulder and drew him close as they watched Moni and her husband sing Lovely Day together.

 

I couldn't stop staring at the two of them – at how good they looked together, at how happy they seemed, that no one cared they were fags, like it was just normal. They were just like any couple. They had problems but they still loved each other. And I'll admit, I was jealous. I wanted that kind of love for myself – a love like water on a hot day. It seemed so rare and so precious in this world.

 

Maybe that was all to come.

 

Maybe.

 

Anyway, I got drunk that night. Ate lots of fish. Had a dance or two. Slept like a baby. A good sleep, first one like it since I left home. It was a nice night. A well-earned night. And then the following morning we all woke up, cleared our trash into a midden, stripped down the tents, stomped out any lingering embers from our cookfires, then slowly returned to our caravan of vehicles to resume the last leg of our westward trek along the Grand Army of the Republic Highway. Two hours later we arrived at the Utah-Nevada border...

 

...and we were finally re-introduced to America.

 

**********

 

The border wall stood tall by seven feet – a trellis of sturdy, galvanized hog wire secured by concrete posts every four yards. It was topped with barbed wire and ran for miles upon miles of desertifying prairie land. Where it met Route 50 there was a mechanized gate secured on the WUSA-side by guard towers equipped with a sound system that was loud enough to be heard half a mile away. Salvatore's car was (as always) at the van of the convoy and when it reached with a hundred feet of the border wall, the megaphones blared out:

 

STOP! YOU ARE APPROACHING RESTRICTED TERRITORY! ANY FURTHER ADVANCEMENT WILL BE MET WITH LETHAL FORCE! STOP! YOU ARE APPROACHING RESTRICTED TERRITORY! ANY FURTHER ADVANCEMENT WILL BE MET WITH LETHAL FORCE! STOP! YOU ARE APPROACHING RESTRICTED TERRITORY! ANY FURTHER ADVANCEMENT WILL BE MET WITH LETHAL FORCE! STOP! YOU ARE APPROACHING RESTRICTED TERRITORY! ANY FURTHER ADVANCEMENT WILL BE MET WITH LETHAL FORCE!

 

Salvatore called for the column to stop.

 

Slowly, bit by bit, engines shut off and horses halted until the entire caravan stopped in its tracks. This time the LaSabre was only a few dozen yards down from the van. While Kennedy shut off the engine, Jay stuck his head through the window to see what was going on. He saw Salvatore climb out of his Ford Escort (alone) with his hands in the air and no weapon in sight. The LaSabre was just close enough to hear him yell:

 

"MY NAME IS CAPTAIN ENRIQUE SALVATORE OF THE WESTERN UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS, 5^TH MARINE REGIMENT, OUT OF CAMP PENDLETON! I AM HERE WITH 1,579 EVACUEES FROM THE THEONOMY! THEY REQUEST SAFE PASSAGE INTO THE W.USA AND ARE FULLY READY TO COOPERATE WITH ANY DIRECTIVES YOU SEE FIT!"

 

"The fuck I am," whispered Kennedy.

 

"I REQUEST PERMISSION TO SPEAK WITH YOUR CAPTAIN OR FIRST SERGEANT," Said Salvatore. "I REPEAT, THESE PEOPLE ARE FULLY READY AND WILLING TO COOPERATE!"

 

A pause.

 

Then.

 

ADVANCE TO THE FRONT GATE! Blared the loudspeakers.

 

Salvatore crossed the hot tarmac towards the gate. After a moment the barred doors opened and squad of fully kitted soldier of the W.US Army shuffled out to detain him. Two kept their rifles on Salvatore as a third patted him down for weapons. There was a conversation between them all that was now too far away to hear, but it didn't look tense, more procedural.

 

Salvatore gave them an identity card to process then showed them his dog tags. One of the soldiers had a scanning device on his hip. He ran the ID card, gave it back to Salvatore, then radioed for someone. Some twenty minutes later a crown-balding man in military fatigues the squad and their newfound detainee – the First Sergeant. He smiled, shook Salvatore's hand, then explained to him how this would work before radioing for more support. Salvatore nodded, then flagged for Travis.

 

Kennedy looked on pensively as the Georgian climbed down from Mildrith's saddle, slowly put his pistol on the ground, then approached Salvatore and the soldiers, who passed on the orders. Travis nodded, ran back to the saddled scout team, told them the orders, who then twisted their reins, doubled back, and galloped down the convoy to inform the others what was to happen. Travis rode Mildrith down to the LaSabre and dismounted.

 

"What's going on?" Asked Kennedy.

 

Travis leaned in through the passenger side window. "Don't worry, everything's fine, they're letting us in, but they say we need to be processed first."

 

"Processed? The fuck does that mean?"

 

"It means they don't know if we're friendlies or not, so they gotta do checks. You'll be fine, just don't open your mouth and piss anyone off."

 

Kennedy frowned. "Fine."

 

"Take your weapons out of the car and lay them on the ground," said Travis. "Then form a line by the roadside. This might take a while, but we'll be okay."

 

As word spread down the column the Exiles all emerged from their vehicles, Jay and Kennedy included. They carefully placed their knives, bats, pistols, and hunting rifles to the ground then formed lines of themselves along the road, hands on heads.

 

By the time the convoy was empty, and the roadsides were full, the support team that the First Sergeant radioed for arrived at the W.USA side of the border wall in a column of dust-stained Humvees and six-wheeled cargo trucks. Around 100 soldiers climbed out and jogged through the gate to form up around the `refugee lines', one soldier for every fifteen people. The First Sergeant held a bullhorn in his hand as he walked with Salvatore down the length of the convoy and the guards stationed at the gate collected the abandoned weaponry.

 

He lifted the device to his lips. "EVERYONE PLEASE REMAIN CALM! WE ARE AMERICANS ALL AND YOU WILL BE TREATED AS SUCH WITH THE FULLEST RESPECT. HOWEVER, IN THE INTEREST OF PROTECTING OUR NATION, WE ARE OBLIGATED TO SCREEN ANYONE WHO SEEKS PERMISSION TO ENTER THE WESTERN UNITED STATES. WE HAVE AUTHORIZATION TO SHOOT AND TO KILL. PLEASE COOPERATE TO THE FULLEST EXTENT POSSIBLE. I REPEAT, PLEASE COOPERATE TO THE FULLEST EXTENT POSSIBLE!"

 

Then the assembled soldiers searched them. One by one, one soldier for every fifteen exiles. Jay, like everyone else, kept his hands behind his head as the soldier assigned to him patted his arms, chest, waist, thighs, and legs. He found nothing. Then he turned to Kennedy and gave him a dirty smile. The Georgian looked away as he was patted down like Jay was – arms, chest, waist, thighs, and legs – then, curiously, his crotch. Kennedy winced, angrily and silently, as the grinning soldier squeezed at his cock through his denims and mimed a little kiss at him before moving on to the next person. Kennedy shivered with disgust.

 

Only Jay saw it.

 

It took forty minutes or so for them all to be searched for any additional weapons or drugs. Nothing was found. After that, the First Sergeant spoke into the bullhorn again. "THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR CONTINUED COOPERATION. YOU WILL NOW BE TAKEN TO OUR PROCESSING CAMP. TRANSPORTATION HAS BEEN SECURED FOR YOU ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS GATE. PLEASE PROCEED IN AN ORDERLY FASHION. YOUR POSSESSIONS WILL BE RETURNED TO YOU AFTER OUR CHECKS ARE COMPLETE!"

 

Jay, Kennedy, Travis, and even Salvatore, along with all the other exiles, were marched forward through the gate to the line of cargo trucks chugging in wait to collect them. In sweltering heat the soldiers herded them all into the six-wheelers' hooded rear vans, cramming them in like sardines. Once all were on board, engines revved, and they were slowly driven out along the vast stretch of nothingness that was Baker, Nevada.

 

One sweat-soaked hour later they arrived at the `processing camp'... and it was as close to a benevolent hell as one could ever hope to find.

 

Barbed wire. Stone walls. Watch towers. Barking dogs. Armed men. Drills. Floodlights. Sandbags. Pylons. Cages. When the Humvees and cargo trucks rolled into its graveled courtyard and the Exiles were pulled from its vans out into the open – Jay felt less like an escapee and more like a prisoner. Squads of soldiers marched them to the field at the rear half of the compound, where forty camo-green, gazebo-sized tarpaulin tents awaited them.

 

With no real order, each of the Exiles were broken up into groups of forty, A-1 through A-40, segregated by sex, and each group was assigned at tent lined with cots. Each cot had a change of clothes (a bright orange jumpsuit), a pillow, a blanket, and a bottle of lukewarm water. Each Exile was assigned a cot. Jay got #19, Kennedy got #20. Travis was assigned to a different group, A-5. And then, under guard, they were left to wait as one by one each of the tent groups was summoned and escorted to the processing center.

 

Jay and Kennedy's group, A-29, was one of the last to be called. As a result, they spent the night in that tent, as the others pondered if the soldiers thought they were terrorists or seditionists or militiamen. They were certainly being treated like ones.

 

Jay couldn't sleep that night. Too many people around him were crying, coughing, or cursing. What if we just traded one hell for another? He thought. And then to his right he heard Kennedy's cot croak as he turned beneath his blanket to call out to the younger boy. He'd been mostly silent since that soldier groped him on the highway. "Hey, Jay."

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Do you think Travis is okay?"

 

Jay nodded. "I think he's fine. Get some rest."

 

**********

 

I remember Ralph saying something on his message to his wife, something like, "The Good Guys Aren't Always Good." A truer truth has never been spoken. God bless America, man. Land of the free, home of the slaves.

 

**********

 

They were called upon first thing in the morning. After breakfast (a tray consisting of two triangular pieces of unbuttered toast, a cold boiled egg, half an orange, and a thermos of lukewarm coffee) Group A-29 were permitted a shower before being marched throughout the network of tents past an inner wall of barb wire to the central processing center at the heart of the camp. It was, for all intents and purposes, a larger than usual auditorium separated into `zones' by wheeled panels and curtains. First was Zone 1 – The Interview. Jay was sent into a small cubicle where a military administrator sat behind a desk with, remarkably, a fully functional computer. A desk fan blew hot air into his sweaty bangs and his fingers struck a thin panel with letters and numbers on it – in the coming weeks he would learn that this was called a `keyboard'.

 

"Name and D.O.B." Demanded the soldier, not looking away from the screen.

 

Jay blinked. "Uh... J-James Mixon. 1^st August 1997."

 

Keystrokes. "Birthplace?"

 

"Washington DC," said Jay. "But I grew up in Colorado."

 

Keystrokes. "Where in Colorado?"

 

"Polk, Weld County."

 

Keystrokes. "Parent's names?"

 

"Daniel and Janette Mixon."

 

And on the questions went. "Religion?" and "Any formal education?" and "Sexual Orientation?" (he lied) and on and on and on until he finally said, "Thank you for your participation, Mr. Mixon, you can see yourself out," and then the soldier guarding the curtain escorted him to the next Zone, Zone 2 – The Physical. There Jay was taken into a slightly larger cubicle with medical instruments and a white-smocked physician, Dr. Meyer, to assess him.

 

Dr. Meyer asked him to relax.

 

Jay's weight was taken (132 lbs). His height was taken (5′6.2″). His blood was drawn (Type 0). His urine was sampled. His breathing, motor functions, eyesight, hearing, were all tested. He was checked for fleas and lice (there were none) and his body was inspected for injuries (bruised ribs, multiple lacerations) or signs of disease (none). And then Dr. Meyer typed up his findings into the computer, thanked Jay for his participation, and called in the next member of Group A-29.

 

Jay was quietly led out of the cubicle into Zone 3 – The Cataloguing. There he was brought to a plastic step and made to stand in front of a green panel whilst another soldier (out of his fatigues) directed him to stand. "Okay," he said. "Face me, that's good."

 

(Flash!)

 

"Turn clockwise, please, 90 degrees."

 

He turned right.

 

(Flash!)

 

"Good. Turn 90 degrees again, please, face the panel."

 

He turned toward the panel.

 

(Flash!)

 

"Good, good. One more time, 90 degrees, second side profile."

 

He turned again.

 

(Flash!)

 

"Excellent," the photographer lowered the camera. "Any injuries?"

 

I feel like crawling into a fucking hole, thought Jay, turning to face him again. "B-bruised ribs."

 

"Okay, take your shirt off please."

 

Stifling a sob, he pulled off his shirt.

 

(Flash!)

 

The photographer smiled. "Thank you for your participation, kid. Next!"

 

Next was Zone 4 – The Questioning. They called it that, of course, but what it was, in essence, was an interrogation. Jay was brought into another narrow cubicle separated by a plastic sheet on a wheeled ring of steel where another soldier sat behind a desk, this time with a pen and paper on a notepad. The soldier welcomed him to sit down and offered him a bottle of water from a portable cooler next to the desk. Jay was disgusted enough to refuse but he was thirsty, genuinely, and drank one. It was ice cold and refreshing.

 

And then came the fucking questions.

 

"Are you, or have you ever been, a member of the Fifty-Five Thousand Army?" "Have you ever known anyone who was a member of the Fifty-Five Thousand Army? If so, what can you tell me about them?" "Have you ever encountered a sympathizer of the Fifty-Five Thousand Army? If so, what can you tell me about them?" "Are you familiar with the Eleven New Commandments? If so, what is your opinion of them?" "Have you ever read the People's Covenant with God? If so, what is your opinion of it?" "What is your opinion of the Theonomic Confederation of New America?" "Have you ever known anyone who harbored ill-filling towards the Western United States? If so, what can you tell me about them?" "What is your opinion of the Western United States?" "What do you expect of the Western United States?" "Have you ever known anyone known who harbored any ill-feeling toward the Eastern United States? If so, what can you tell me about them?" et cetera, et cetera.

 

"No," said Jay, tiredly. "Yes, he and his son were slave traders who destroyed my hometown." "No, and I've never met one so nothing." "Yeah, just lately – I think they're disgusting." "No, I haven't read it, I don't wanna read it, and it probably sucks." "Sounds like a shithole." "I just found out it exists, so no." "Seems swell." "I hope I can be safe here." "No and nothing."

 

It went on like that. Questions about his political beliefs, his friend's political beliefs, his parent's political beliefs, if he suspected anyone amongst the Exiles had `certain' political beliefs. The questions seemed circular and repetitive, as if the interrogator was trying to wear him down or catch him in a lie. But there was nothing to lie about. He wasn't part of the scum, he was running from them, they all were. Jay felt like he was in that cubicle for days, but eventually the interrogator stopped, thanked him for his participation like everyone else did, and asked the soldier-escort to take him outside to the last zone.

 

Zone 5 – The Induction.

 

The soldier took him through the auditorium's rear-facing double doors to a graveled clearing outside where forty deck chairs sat arrayed in front of a massive white screen. Up above on the auditorium's second floor a projector machine cast its lens through an open window. The set up reminded Jay of something he'd read about in books – a kind of outdoor cinema that cars could drive into.

 

"Take a seat," said his escort.

 

As one of the first in Group A-29 to be `processed', Jay was one of only a handful of people there. The boy picked a random empty seat and waited for another two hours as slowly but surely the other members of the group filed in to take their seats. Kennedy was one, but there was only room for him on the other side of the chair arrangement. By that time, it was high noon, hot as hell, and everyone was tired. Some people whispered to each other, comparing notes about their experiences. They silenced themselves when a soldier walked out into the group to hand each member something before the `movie' started.

 

A provisional identity card.

 

 

 

 

The projector flashed on. The speakers arranged around their seats crackled. And then an image cast against the screen: a middle-aged white man well-dressed in a nice three-piece navy-blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. His smile was soft and furrowed, and his dark hair ever so slightly ruffled. Behind him were the simple things of a circular office. A bookcase full of American Classics. A tall glass window with a sprawling view of a thriving seafront metropole. Potted kentias. And a single flag lulling from a steel pole, the Star-Spangled Banner.

 

"Hey everyone," the speakers were so loud Jay felt the voice in his teeth. "My name is Albert Arnold Gore Jnr, but feel free to call me Al. I'm the Joint 43^rd President of the United States, and the 1^st President of the Western United States. I know it must have been a long, hard journey for you to get here, so let me be the first to welcome you to the Western United States of America. Now. At this point our wonderful men and women in uniform will have given you your official provisional identity cards. Please take good care of them. Now that the processing is done, you're scheduled to report to a formal orientation center in one of our many great cities, where you'll become fully registered Americans, with the liberty to make your home anywhere you please in our great expanse, just as our founders intended. However..."

 

Jay frowned.

 

"Please be aware that if you fail to report to your assigned orientation center within the next two weeks, your provisional citizenship will be revoked, and you will be declared outlaws of the state, subject to trial, and potentially, expulsion. I know these measures may seem stringent, but I assure you, everything we do is in the interest of our citizens and our great nation. This is our home. And it is yours too if you want it to be. Welcome home, everyone."

 

The camera zoomed in on President Gore's soft smile.

 

"God bless you all," he said. "And may God bless the United States of America."

 

End of A-roll.

 

When the projector stopped and the screen went blank again, some people grumbled (especially Kennedy) but most were relieved. "A fresh start!" One uttered. "Somewhere to grow old safely, that's all we wanted!" said someone else. The general mood amongst them was grim, but positive. We're here now let's make the most of it was the gist.

 

But Jay wasn't so sure.

 

He thought of a boy he once loved and wondered what he would think. Not because that boy was worth remembering, but because the boy had a handful of redeeming qualities – one of which was a good sense for bullshit – and there were few better barometers in this world than that. Jay thought for a moment. And then he told himself to be weary.

 

Kennedy stood up on the other side of the `cinema' and waved for Jay to come over to him.

 

Neither of them noticed as someone spotted Jay from the rear and blanched. Someone who the Exiles had picked up very close to the outskirts of the Colorado-Kansas border, someone who lost half his face to a gas tank explosion. Someone who crawled his way out of the fire with a broken leg, passed out, then woke up in Moni's care. Someone who almost bit his way through an old wooden spoon as she and Kennedy set his leg and bandaged his suppurating facial wounds. Someone who had no choice but to lie down and recover as the Exiles made their way west. Someone who could barely stand on his splint as WUS soldiers searched his pockets. Someone who slept not six cots down from Jay in the 29^th tent, wracked with nightmares of his immolated son. Someone who was very evasive in Zone 4 of his processing, lying about his beliefs and name, calling himself "John Haberman". Someone who looked with rank disgust at Al Gore and his fucking ID cards. Someone who saw Jay walk across that big screen to his new friend and felt the very providence of God guiding his steps toward glorious retribution.

 

Someone called Wuhrer.

 

**********

 

TO BE CONCLUDED IN THE DYING CINDERS: WELCOME HOME

 

**********

 

 

• Thanks for reading, everybody! Hope you enjoyed it, comments and criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com, love to hear from you.

 

• Please read some of my other stories on Nifty: Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).