As always he had dreams, really bad dreams. He dreamed of babies burning with their little clothes sticking to them. He saw people being eaten or rendered for their protein. He had visions of concentration camps and segregated areas for “different” people. He dreamed of piles of American flags and bibles burning. His dreams were vivid. He seldom slept more than five hours.
When he could, he slept during breaks on his “walks.” When he crossed a grassy park surrounded by trees, occasionally he would lie down, hidden on the side where he could watch his path, and would sometimes have uninterrupted sweet dreams of the times he’d hunted the Rockies as a vibrant young man. He dreamed of camp robber jays that walked right up and took food off your plate if you let them, and he dreamed of watching beaver work hurriedly in late September while he lay undetected under a large blue spruce or tangle of yellowing aspen. He had seen bear, lion, elk and mule deer. He had killed blue grouse, pheasant, elk and deer. He could kill none of them now. His heart had softened in old age. He would kill nothing anymore ... except possibly man.
He’d received valuable information from a couple of young men with regard to the location of the MSA. The young men had an uncle who owned about five thousand acres outside Glacier National Park in Montana. Their three cousins were apparently members of MSA, and the walker was given their telephone number and offered a ride up highway 93 to the Whitefish Range. He accepted, but asked if he could ride in the rear of one of the pickups so that no one outside the compound would see him leave.
The ride was bumpy until they turned off I-90 onto U.S.-93. He transferred to the cab on a deserted road with plenty of overhead cover. They stopped to eat in Kalispell, but as usual he only ate to survive his walks. Eating took too much time. They dropped him in Whitefish, and turned back toward Helena with fond wishes and “good luck.” He wished them “eternal vigilance.” They didn’t think the comment was strange; coming from the walker.
2.
He stocked up on necessities, called the cousins, talked to one, and then strode off toward the timber of the Whitefish. Soon after he disappeared into the timber he stopped to check his topographic maps, refer to his GPS and chew on some beef jerky. He preferred beef since most beef is inspected well, or at least it used to be. He vaguely noted that his back pack seemed heavier each month. He settled his .40 caliber pistol and its holster onto his chest, admired the building clouds and pointed himself northeast toward Coal Creek.
He always looked forward to his treks. They cleared his mind of doubts and helped refine his speech for the next group of patriots. He always understood there could be a degree of prejudice and bigotry engrained in these backwoods types, but with today’s highly educated population one saw less and less of that kind of thinking. He didn’t need those undercurrents muddying up the waters of his calling. Anyone should be able to see the higher goals needing to be reached. Still, he wasn’t sure how many of the newer members were Homeland Security plants. He just reminded himself he would convert them as well. What mattered to him was the United States of America. What mattered above all was the Constitution.
He made a rudimentary camp at about nine thousand feet, snuggled up against an outcrop of rock that had been used by myriad small animals for generations. He erected a lean-to shelter to shed the misting rain and started a small fire of white gas. He drank deeply from his water store knowing there would be plenty of fresh springs on the eastern slope of the Whitefish. He hung his food rations from a high tree limb and lay back on his sleeping bag to snooze, hopefully. With his pistol on his chest, he dozed and dreamed of happier times with his late wife. She had been his only reason for living, until cancer took her.
It took many years to finally realize his country was really worth dying for. Oh, he had been in the Marines; spent time in Vietnam, two tours in “Ascrackistan.” But ... that had been a job and he had Linda to help him through it. He loved to fantasize about seeing her bare freckled shoulders under her apron straps. Not to mention that white butt of hers shining like an Irish search lamp. Several times during their marriage, he’d caught her wearing nothing but an apron in the kitchen. When he saw her she would giggle and blush red, but she still loved the thrill of it. They’d enjoyed a rich relationship without children. Both had wanted kids, but she couldn’t conceive due to complications from Crone’s disease. They talked about adopting, but never found the right occasion. Then she … got sick … . He awoke abruptly, but continued dreaming of her.
He still kept her goodbye letter in his safety deposit box in Salt Lake. Each time he found himself there he would read it again. And he did often find himself there, because he liked to consult the Mormons with regard to the latest in food and data storage technology. Thanks to the LDS church, many records, especially genealogy records, are stored in deep caves in the Wasatch Mountains. There were also several well-armed Minute Man groups in Utah. One group counted their numbers in the thousands. The Mormons usually do those things correctly. He never could adopt their religion, but their work ethic was dear to his heart.
A new breeze disrupted his concentration as it whipped and snapped his camoflage nylon cover. He got up to tighten it and realized the rain had stopped. He walked into the woods to urinate and looked up at the stars. Everything was surreal when there was no light pollution. He could see the Milky Way; billions of stars. There was no moon. He immediately felt infinitely insignificant. Humility was always with him in any case, but in camp he dropped to his knees and prayed. He prayed for humility; courage and strength to finish his calling.
He was convinced premature death awaited him, but always tried to shrug it off. He was a born-again Christian and was profoundly changed when he accepted Christ into his heart as a young man. He believed with certainty there was an afterlife. Still, ones “id” never ceases to question the necessity of death. Yeah, he was kind of scared. He was scared that everything he was trying to do would lead to zero and he would be killed, discredited, and mocked as a fool. When one aspires to higher goals and contemplates failure, why is it the acceptance of friends and relatives becomes so important? He didn’t have many of those left, but he didn’t want them to be embarrassed if he screwed up. He sat down on a rock, just to meditate.
He awoke to the “jerk, jerk, jerk” of a jay bird. It was morning and he’d slumped to the ground and slept. He was cold. He was bone cold! He grunted to his feet and started to stretch a bit---cracks and pops. He sounded like breakfast cereal. He grinned a bit. It almost hurt his face. He hadn’t used his grin muscles much since Linda left. It felt kind of good. As he began to warm up he started his burner, heated some water and had oatmeal. He finished his breakfast, packed and consulted his GPS. He had fifty miles to go before he got to the latitude and longitude coordinates the cousin had given him.
3.
Twenty four hundred miles away in an air conditioned office of the White House, President Charles Able loosened his purple silk tie, plopped down in a light brown leather easy chair and conferred with his Director of Homeland Security; Stephen Northfield, and his old friend and partner in crime Albert Swain, who was, and always would be his Security Advisor.
“Steve, I really don’t like what I’m hearing from the second amendment freaks out west. It’s bad enough that some of the western states are passing laws of their own on immigration, gun rights, search and seizure, and separation of church and state. Now the governor of Montana, old ‘Holifattin’ or whatever his name is, is claiming the National Guard in Montana is under the sole direction of the State. I never heard such a crock of shit! ’You have any Intel on the situation?”
“Mr. President”…
“Damn it Steve, I told you to call me Chuck.”
“Mr. President”…
“Shit … you tickle me Stephen! Okay, okay go ahead ... go ahead! No friends in this job