Fire in the Ashes

The parking lot of the local high school was full to overflowing, the Rebels forced to park cars in the nearby streets. Inside, teenagers were placed in charge of the very young children, classrooms used as childcare rooms. The adults, those seventeen and older, were packed into the auditorium.

The sight of armed, uniformed Rebels had served a twofold purpose: piquing the curiosity of the citizens and quieting them down considerably. Still there was a low hum of quiet conversation. This was the first time the people had been allowed to meet, en masse, since the government had reformed after the bombings of 1988 and the relocation efforts of the government.

When Ben stepped onto the stage, the hum of conversation ceased.

Ben looked the crowd over and they looked back at him. He clicked the mike on and spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?"

The amplifier was set too high and the huge room was filled with electronic feedback. The amplifier was adjusted and Ben continued.

“My name is General Ben Raines. I am commander of what the press has termed The Rebels. Your police and sheriff's department no longer exist, as such. This town, for the moment, is under martial law."

There was a roar of conversation and Ben hastened to reassure the people.

“Let me explain, folks; I think you probably have the wrong idea."

The people showed no sign of quieting, so Ben leaned against the podium and waited. After a moment, a man stood up and began walking down the aisle. Midway, he stopped. “I'm Ed Vickers,” he said. “Mayor of Radford. What in the hell is going on in this country? Particularly here in this town?"

“We—the Rebels—are taking control from the government,” Ben told him. “And returning it to the people, hopefully,” he added.

“Good luck,” the mayor grunted. “Where are the federal police?"

“Outside in the hall, alive and well, under guard. The only thing hurt about any of them is their dignity."

“Too damn bad about their dignity,” a man's voice rumbled from the depths of the crowd. “You give that blond-headed, young, smart-mouthed city cop to me and I'll hurt more than his dignity."

It was going just as Ben thought it would. He listened for a moment as some others began shouting out their complaints concerning the federal police and their high-handed tactics. Ben propped the butt of the old Thompson on the podium and let his features harden in the harsh lights. He looked tough, dangerous, and very competent.

The packed auditorium grew silent.

Ben laid the Thompson on a low table. “What we are going to do this evening, people, is something I have long advocated for all states of this nation."

Roanna was carefully recording every word. She did so with a faint smile of admiration on her lips. If she came out of this alive, she felt she would win the Pulitzer for this story.

“You people are going to have a town meeting. An old-fashioned town-hall meeting. It's your right to do that. This is your town, you live here, your tax dollars help support it—you certainly have a right to have a say in the way it's run. Within reason, and keeping in mind that every law-abiding citizen has his or her rights, you people may govern this town the way you see fit."

One man, seated in the rear of the auditorium, jumped to his feet. “I'm the local DA,” he said. “And I want to go on record as being opposed to everything you and your band of outlaws stand for."

A man seated across the aisle got to his feet, stepped across the aisle, and punched the DA in the mouth, knocking him back in his seat.

“Excuse me, General,” he said, rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. “But a lot of us have wanted to do that for a long time. He's federal, just like the cops, and he's come down hard on a lot of us."

“You're both of the same size and age,” Ben said. “Hit him again if you want to."

“I'll sue you!” the DA shouted.

The room exploded in laughter and shouts of hooting derision.

And many of the Rebels present were suddenly flung back in time, to another day, a more peaceful time, back to the Tri-States.

Three

The reception center at the entrance to the Tri-States was large and cool and comfortable, furnished with a variety of chairs and couches. Racks of literature about Tri-States, its people, its economy, and its laws filled half of one wall. A table with doughnuts and two coffee urns sat in the center of the room; soft-drink machines were set to the right of the table. Between two closed doors was a four-foot high desk, fifteen feet long, closed from floor to top. Behind the desk, two young women stood, one of them Tina Raines. The girls were dressed identically: jeans and light blue shirts.

“Good morning,” Tina greeted the reporters on their first excursion into the heretofore closed state of Tri-States. “Welcome to the Tri-States. My name is Tina, this is Judy. Help yourself to coffee and doughnuts—they're free—or a soft drink."