Into the Guns (16 page)

The next hour was spent taking a bath and donning clean clothes. Sloan got rid of the orange jumpsuit by digging a hole and burying it. As soon as that was accomplished, he built a small fire, knowing that if someone happened along, he'd look as innocent as a man with a scruffy beard could.

Sloan's loot included a can of stew. After dumping it into the stolen pot, he was forced to wait. To kill time and slake his thirst, he opened the bottle of wine. And, lacking a corkscrew, he made quite a mess of it.
I should have selected a red,
Sloan thought to himself as he pried the last chunk of cork out.
To go with the stew.

Sloan's stomach rumbled ominously as he took the bubbling brew off the fire and went to work. He ate, using a cooking spoon and pausing occasionally to take sips of wine.

Once his stomach was full, Sloan was faced with a choice. It was midafternoon, so perhaps he should remain on the island and get an early start the next morning. But the sooner Sloan arrived in Lake Charles, the sooner he'd be able to travel north, where he hoped to find some support.

With that in mind Sloan put everything back in the boat, poured water on the fire, and rowed out to where he could start the motor. The channel led him into the main waterway, where he fell in behind a heavily loaded barge. With the motor running full out, Sloan could keep up—and was content to do so as day gave way to night.

Clusters of lights appeared, marking the locations of small communities and signaling the fact that the power was on. How could that be? But what was, was.

Finally, after an hour or so, Sloan made the decision to go ashore. He was tired and concerned lest the motor run out of gas
while on the Intracoastal. And the last thing he wanted to do was to try to refill the internal tank in the dark. He saw some lights and took aim at them.

Fifteen minutes later, Sloan arrived at a small town. He had some money, but should he spend it? Especially in a little Podunk town where strangers would stick out. No, Sloan decided, it would be best to hold out for a larger town.

The waterfront park was equipped with picnic tables and metal barbecues. There was no way to know how the local police force would look on overnight camping, so Sloan chose the spot farthest from the parking lot, hoping to escape notice.

There wasn't much firewood to be had, but Sloan managed to scrounge enough fallen branches to build a small fire and heat a can of chili. That, along with what remained of the wine, was sufficient to warm his belly.

After washing up, Sloan put on every piece of clothing he had with the rain poncho on top. Then, with no good place to sleep, he was forced to hunker down on a much-abused cushion that was enough to keep his butt up out of the water in the bottom of the boat. The incessant moan of a distant foghorn, the occasional barking of a dog, and a sudden rain shower kept him awake. The night seemed to last forever.

Dawn came eventually. But with no dry firewood, Sloan left as soon as there was sufficient light to see by. He figured he was north of Moss Lake and likely to reach the city of Lake Charles by evening.

The sky was blue for once, and Sloan hoped that was a good omen, as an endless succession of whitecaps marched down from the north. Spray exploded sideways as the boat smacked into the waves, and droplets of water flew back to wet his poncho.

There was no warmth to be had from the wan sunlight. All
Sloan could do was sit in the stern and shiver, as the tireless five-horse pushed him past Prien Lake and into Lake Charles.

It was necessary to refuel shortly thereafter. Sloan had to hurry as waves hit the skiff broadside and threatened to swamp it. But he got the job done. And it wasn't long before Sloan saw two office buildings and a TV tower on the horizon. The city of Lake Charles! He was close.

Forty-five minutes later, Sloan could see the town's mostly low-lying buildings and a well-developed waterfront. And that raised a question: Where to leave the boat? The obvious answer was with other boats—in the hope that no one would notice it for a while.

It took about fifteen minutes to find a small marina, collect his scant belongings, and walk away. Maybe the authorities would be able to trace the boat back to its rightful owner via the registration decal on the bow. Sloan hoped so. The marina was located near the intersection of Bor Du Lac and Lakeshore Drives.

As Sloan entered town, he was surprised to see how many people were marching about, waving flags, and shouting slogans. A man carrying a Confederate flag was flanked by picketers armed with “New Order” signs.

Meanwhile, a hundred feet away, those waving American flags had the support of a costumed flutist who was playing “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

Most of the bystanders were cheering for the Confederates, so it appeared that Huxton and his friends were making progress. Having failed to recruit him, what would they do next?

But politics would have to wait. Sloan had more pressing problems to deal with. Thanks to Short Guy he had enough money for some basic toiletries, a decent meal, and a night in a cheap hotel.

He awoke feeling hungry. But before Sloan went looking for
breakfast, he wanted to take full advantage of the shower and the opportunity to shave the scruffy beard off.

Sloan had no choice but to put the same clothes back on. Clean now, for the most part anyway, he made his way to a nearby café, where he ordered the “Sunrise Special.” It consisted of two strips of bacon, two eggs any style, and two pancakes—plus all the coffee Sloan could consume. He ate every bite and consumed three cups of coffee.

Then it was time to hit the streets and look for an affordable way out of town. The first thing Sloan noticed was the number of people on the streets. And the way they were congregated around various speakers. By listening in, it soon became apparent that a referendum was under way. Should the state of Louisiana secede? Or remain with the “old” government, which, according to the propaganda being bandied about, was intent on subverting the Constitution on behalf of “the takers.” Takers being those on social security and public assistance.

That was bullshit, of course, and some of the “patriots” stood up to say so. One such person was a thirtysomething black man wearing a well-cut business suit. He was standing on the bed of a bunting-draped pickup truck and holding a bullhorn up to his mouth. “This is the time to rally
behind
our country,” he told a small crowd, “not to tear it down. Do you really believe that rich people are going to look after your interests? Of course they won't . . . The only thing they care about is themselves! That's what ‘security through self-reliance' means. It's another way of saying, ‘I have mine, and you can kiss my ass!'”

The man might have said more . . . But a dozen men armed with baseball bats chased the onlookers away. They lined up along both sides of the truck and began to rock it back and forth. Sloan took
a look around. Where were the police? Deliberately missing in action. The beleaguered speaker had little choice but to jump off the back of the vehicle and run. Two thugs gave chase, caught up with the man, and hauled him around a corner.

Sloan pushed his way through the crowd. There was a construction site to his left, and he paused long enough to grab a four-foot length of two-by-two from a pile of scrap, before continuing on. The Glock was at the small of his back, but Sloan wasn't planning to use it unless forced to do so.

When Sloan rounded the corner, he saw that the thugs had the man down, and were kicking him. Their backs were turned, and that was fine with Sloan, who came up behind them. After planting his feet, he took a swing. He felt the impact of the blow as the stick hit the man's head. The thug fell as if poleaxed and lay motionless on the ground.

As the second attacker turned, the two-by-two was falling again. Sloan missed the thug's head and struck his shoulder. The man uttered a scream as the force of the blow broke his left clavicle. He stumbled away, fell, and lay moaning on the ground.

The patriot was back on his feet by then, dusting his suit off. The kick was an afterthought. “Asshole.”

“Come on,” Sloan said. “Let's get out of here.”

“Recommendation accepted,” the other man said. “‘The better part of valor is discretion.'
Henry IV, Part 1,
act 5, scene 4. Reginald P. Allston at your service.”

“You're an actor?” Sloan inquired, as they hurried away.

“An amateur,” Allston replied. “I make my living as an attorney.”

“I liked your speech,” Sloan told him. “That took balls.”

“Thanks. And you are?”

“Samuel Sloan.”

Allston frowned. “The name sounds familiar.”

“I was the Secretary of Energy until recently,” Sloan replied.

“If you say so,” Allston replied.

“No, really, I was.”

“Was?”

“Well, according to what I've been told, the president, which is to say Marilyn Wainwright, had a heart attack and died. And, since all of the officials who outranked me were killed, I'm the president.”

Allston laughed. “That's absurd. You're delusional.”

Sloan stopped, causing Allston to do likewise. He wanted the attorney to take him seriously. But
how
? Then he saw the building on the opposite side of the street and realized that the solution was waiting inside. “Can I call you Reggie?”

“Everyone does.”

“Good. Follow me, Reggie . . . I'm the President of the United States, and I can prove it.”

The sign on the front of the building read,
CARNEGIE MEMORIAL LIBRARY
. Once inside, Sloan led Allston to the information desk, where a young woman with purple hair looked up at him. “How can I help you?”

“Where are the periodicals located?”

“Prior to the meteor strikes, most people went online to access periodicals,” the woman said, as if explaining the concept to a child.

“But you have copies stored here, right?”

“In some cases, yes.”

“How about the
New York Times
?”

“We have copies predating the meteor strikes if that's what you mean . . . But the
Times
has been added to the proscribed list, so if the paper still exists, we won't be able to obtain new copies.”

“
Proscribed
list?” Allston demanded. “What's that?”

“It's a list of publications that the state legislature considers to be counterproductive,” the librarian replied expressionlessly. Did
she approve or disapprove? Sloan would have been willing to put money on the second possibility.

“That's censorship,” Allston said. “And it's a violation of the First Amendment to the United States Constitution.”

“You aren't in the United States,” the woman countered. “You're in the state of Louisiana.”

Sloan was afraid that Allston was about to deliver another speech and hurried to cut him off. “Thanks for your help. Where can we access the periodicals that you still have?”

The librarian pointed, and Sloan escorted Allston back through the stacks to a corner of the library. A sign said
PERIODICALS
, and four terminals were located immediately below it. “I appreciate what you did for me,” Allston said. “But I don't have time for this.”

“Five minutes,” Sloan said. “That's all I need.”

“Okay,” Allston said reluctantly. “Five minutes. Then I'm out of here.”

Sloan sat down, worked his way through a menu, and selected “
New York Times
.” Then he entered a date. The article he wanted was on page one above the fold. “There,” Sloan said, as he stood. “Take a look.”

Allston sat down. And there, right in front of him, was a photo of Sloan standing next to the President of the United States. The headline read: “New Secretary of Energy Sworn In.”

Allston looked at Sloan and back to the screen. “Holy shit . . . It's
you
!”

“Yes, it is,” Sloan agreed. “And, assuming that all of the people who outranked me were killed, then I'm the president.”

“Hell yes, you are,” Allston said enthusiastically, and hit
PRINT
. A printer began to whir, and Allston was there to receive five copies of the article as they slid into the tray. “Do you realize what this
means?” he demanded. “We can prove who you are! And we can pull the country back together. That's what you want, right?”

“That's what I want,” Sloan assured him. “I want to restore the government.”

“Then I'm with you,” Allston assured him. “Come on . . . Let's see what those bastards did to my uncle's truck.”

Sloan followed Allston past the reception desk and outside. Sirens could be heard, and greasy black smoke was spiraling up into the sky. And when the men rounded a corner, they could see that the pickup was on fire. The police were nowhere to be seen, but an aid unit was pulling away, and firemen were working to extinguish the flames. “Uh-oh,” Allston said, “Uncle Leo's gonna be pissed. Come on, let's get out of here.”

“Where are we headed?” Sloan inquired, as they hurried away.

“We're going to rent a car,” Allston answered. “And drive it to Shreveport.”

Sloan knew that Shreveport was to the north, so there was no reason to object. It took the better part of an hour to find a rental agency and complete the necessary paperwork, all the while wondering if someone would recognize Allston and refuse to serve him. No one did. The attorney had to pay half the fee in advance and used silver coins to do so. Sloan made a note to learn more about them later. As soon as they were in the car, Allston made his way onto Highway 171 and drove north. “We're going to meet with some friends of mine,” Allston said. “They saw this day coming—and are ready to fight.”

“Sounds good,” Sloan said. “Where are they?”

“They're going to meet at a location in the Ouachita National Forest,” Allston replied. “And I was planning to join them there. So,” he continued, “how did you wind up in Lake Charles?”