“Ha!” James said. “He got you on that one, didn't he, Yankee boy?” James had lived in Georgia before he and Cille moved down to the beach.
“I guess you're right,” Marcus said. “Okay, let's secede. It might work for you this time, 'cause you got someone from the North with you.”
“Hell, I thought we already had seceded,” Willie Stark said.
“Well, in essence we have,” Jake agreed. “But I think we should make it official.”
“You mean make our own Declaration of Independence,” Deon asked. “Just like George Washington and those guys did?”
“Yes, that's exactly what I mean,” Jake said.
“If we do that, I think we should actually write out a document,” Karin said.
“I think so too,” Jake said. “Why not?”
“And do what with it?” Marcus asked. “It's not like we can print it up in a newspaper and circulate it around.”
“I don't know. Post it somewhere, I suppose,” Jake said.
“What if we called a meeting of everyone down here on the island, read it aloud, then got a vote on it? If everyone agrees, by vote, then we will be, officially, seceded,” Bob said.
“Good idea,” Jake said. “No, that's a damn fine idea. You're the writer, Bob. Will you write it?”
“Yeah,” Bob said, smiling broadly. “You're damn right, I will.”
“You write it, we'll get the word out to everyone else down here, and have a town hall meeting to make it official.”
C
HAPTER
F
OUR
Dallas, Texas
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Sam Gelbman wasn't exactly sure how he had gotten here. Why had he turned down this dark alley? And why were his headlights not bright enough for him to even see where he was going? Where was he? And where was Sarah? When he left he thought Sarah was in the car with him, but she obviously was not.
Sam felt a sense of panic, and he stared through the windshield, trying to figure out where he was. The buildings on either side of the alley were getting closer, and if he were to meet a car coming in the opposite direction, there wouldn't be room for both of them to pass.
Rats darted out from behind a large trash receptacle and ran across the alley if front of him, their beady eyes shining bright red in the reflection of his headlights. The alley grew even narrower, and now he could barely proceed without scraping the sides of his car.
The engine died, and Sam tried to restart it, but the engine wouldn't turn over. The battery was dead. He tried to get out of his car but he couldn't, because the car was now so tightly squeezed in by the buildings on either side that he couldn't get the doors open.
Where was he? Where was Sarah?
Sam tried to make a call on his cell phone, but he couldn't. Every time he tried to dial, he got the numbers wrong.
“Sarah, where are you?” he asked aloud.
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Sam woke up then, and found himself lying in his own bed, in his own bedroom. He was breathing hard, and he knew he had just had one of his recurring dreams, where he is lost and alone. He reached over to find his wife lying beside him, and he took her hand in his. He felt her squeeze his hand reassuringly, even though she was still asleep.
Sam lay in bed for a long moment until the beat of his heart slowed, and his breathing became more normal. Then he got out of bed and went to the bathroom. Turning on the bathroom light he stared at himself in the mirror. Sam was thirty-three years old with brown eyes, and hair that he kept short, because it had a tendency to curl.
This wasn't the first time he had had such a dream. At least twice a month, and sometimes even more often, he would be lost and separated from Sarah, not knowing where she was, knowing that she didn't know where he was, and unable to communicate with her. He had no idea what caused the dreams, but they were very disturbing, and each time the dream occurred he would wake up, highly agitated.
Oddly enough, when he had been in Afghanistan, and really was separated from Sarah, he had no such dreams. They had only started when he came back home, but they had been recurring now for almost ten years.
“Sam?”
Sam heard Sarah's call, and he turned the light off in the bathroom, then returned to bed.
“Sam, are you all right?”
“I'm fine.”
She reached over to take his hand. “The dream?”
“Yeah.”
“And I wasn't with you?”
“No.”
“Well, I am now.”
Sarah lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it.
“I don't know why I have that damn dream all the time,” Sam said.
“Where were you lost this time?”
“I don't know,” Sam said. He chuckled. “If I knew, I wouldn't have been lost.”
Sarah chuckled as well.
“Well, you know where you are now. You are right here, in your own bed, with me. And I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Sarah snuggled up closer to him. “Maybe if you feel me next to you, you won't dream that we are separated.”
“Maybe,” Sam agreed, reaching his arm out so she could lay her head on his shoulder.
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When Sam went out to his car the next morning, he saw that, during the night, someone had put up a sign in his front yard. He went over to look at it, even though he knew what he was going to see.
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Get Out
Filthy Jew!
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Throughout most of his life, Sam had not had to deal with real ethnic prejudices. Oh, from time to time he might see a slight reaction in people when he was introduced to them, and he had heard a few off-color ethnic jokes. But shortly after the election of Ohmshidi, Jew-bashing became an official policy, and the anti-Semitic epithets were appearing more and more often. Last month someone had actually scratched a swastika into the paint on the side of his car.
He checked his car to see if it had suffered any further damage, and was glad to see that it had not. Walking over to the sign, he pulled it from the ground and tossed it into the back of his car before Sarah could see it. He knew that the growing mood of hostility disturbed her, and he wanted, as much as possible, to protect her from it.
As he drove out Interstate 635, however, he saw a big billboard which brought home the fact that he couldn't protect her from everything.
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Jews
Are the Disciples of
Satan
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St. Louis, Missouri
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It very quickly became known that Reed Franken was the national leader of the SPS, because his pictures became as ubiquitous as those of Ohmshidi. And because the official policy of the
Moqaddas Sirata
forbade pictures, the fact that Ohmshidi and Franken were the only two photos on public display made them the two most recognized people in the entire nation.
There was a billboard on Lindbergh Boulevard, which had a picture of Franken, standing with his right arm folded across his chest, his hand clenched into a fist, staring out at the traffic which, because fuel was becoming increasingly available, was beginning to flow again, though not nearly with the intensity of the “before time.”
The words, in big black letters alongside Franken's picture, read:
BE A GOOD CITIZEN
REPORT YOUR NEIGHBORS
WHO DO NOT FOLLOW
THE PATH OF MOQADDAS SIRATA
LET THIS BE YOUR GREETING
OBEY OHMSHIDI
Soon after Franken reconstituted the SPS, he sent his men out across the nation, confiscating guns, Bibles, and the Torah. They also began killing dogs, and enforcing the new law that required greetings be exchanged by making a fist of your right hand, holding it over your heart, and saying; “Obey Ohmshidi.”
There were some who welcomed the invasion of the SPS because for the first few months after the total collapse, a wave of lawlessness had swept through the nation terrorizing the people. The SPS provided an element of security, albeit a security that deprived people of individual freedoms. Still, for the most part, it was within a person's power to avoid the wrath of the SPS, simply by following the rules, no matter how personally repugnant those rules might be.
The SPS men were immediately recognizable because of the forest green uniforms, and the gold SPS letters on their collar, the S's resembling two lightning bolts, separated by the letter P that looked like a hatchet. They wore the insignia of rank on the epaulets, and a red armband which had Ohmshidi's personal symbol, the letter “O.” They greeted each other by making a fist of their right hand and clasping across their chest, while saying, “Obey Ohmshidi.” What's more, they insisted that all citizens adopt that as a greeting.
The SPS seemed most zealous in enforcing the Religious Liberation Act which, contrary to its name, did not offer religious liberty, but outlawed all religion except for the
Moqaddas Sirata
of Islam.
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In what everyone was now calling “the before time,” Tom Jack had been a lieutenant commander in the U.S. Navy, a SEAL who had been involved in many combat operations. When the U.S. military disbanded, Tom, and tens of thousands of other career soldiers, sailors, and airmen, were forced out of service. Returning to his home town of St. Louis, he had earned a living by providing security for people, protecting them against roving bands of thieves. He also fished in the Mississippi, Missouri, and Merrimac rivers, and hunted deer and rabbit out in St. Louis County. And because in the beginning money was worthless, Tom supported himself and his wife, Sheri, on the barter system.
New money had now been introduced and it was gradually beginning to be a viable instrument of trade; though for gasoline, electricity, and water, money wasn't enough. An identity card was also necessary, and in order to obtain the card one had to swear personal allegiance to Ohmshidiâand that, Tom wouldn't do. Inevitably a black market developed, and it was through the black market that Tom was able to provide the necessities of life, though he hated assigning any value to a currency that had Ohmshidi's face on every denomination.
In addition, Tom's private security service was becoming more difficult to maintain, as the SPS was not only providing its own brand of security, but also closing down any private company they felt was in competition with them, including detective agencies, bodyguards, and security companies.
Despite the Religious Liberation Act, many churches across the country continued to conduct regular services, doing so in open and defiant violation of that law. One such church was a Catholic church in St. Louis, and the announcement board in front of it read:
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.
The fact that there was no longer a constitution, or a congress, did nothing to lessen the impact of the statement, and on this particular Sunday morning, the priest, in liturgical garb, was standing in front of the church, welcoming the few parishioners who were brave enough to attend the service.
Tom and Sheri Jack were not parishioners, but by coincidence they were at this particular moment standing on the corner in front of the church, waiting at a bus stop.
Suddenly two motorcycles turned off the road and up onto the sidewalk.
“What are those crazy people doing up on the sidewalk?” Sheri asked. “That's not very smart.”
The bikers were wearing the forest green uniforms of the State Protective Service.
“Look at their uniforms. They're SPS, that should answer your question,” Tom replied. “Nobody has ever accused any SPS person of being smart.”
Suddenly the two riders opened their throttles to full and came roaring up the sidewalk toward the church.
“Tom!” Sheri shouted.
Tom grabbed Sheri and pulled her out into the street just in time to avoid being hit by the roaring motorcycles. They watched as the motorcycles headed for the church, then they heard the sound of gunfire, even above the noise of the engines.
Not only did the priest go down, but so did several of the parishioners who were standing nearby. The motorcyclists went to the far end of the block, then turned around and started back.
“They're coming back!” someone shouted.
Tom pulled a pistol from his pocket and aimed at the first biker, giving him a slight lead. Neither of the bikers realized they were in danger as they came back for a second pass. Tom pulled the trigger and the first rider lost control of his bike when he was hit. His bike fell over and the second biker, with no time to react, slammed into the first. The two bikes slid along the sidewalk, sending up a shower of sparks until they came to a stop, the two riders nothing but bloody pulps.
It was at that very moment that the bus approached, and Tom and Sheri boarded.
“What happened?” the driver asked.
“Motorcycle wreck,” Tom replied.
“Hmmph. You'll never get me on one of those things.” The driver closed the door and Tom and Sheri took their seats.