The following is speculative fiction.
King James Bible
“Suppose ye that I am come to give peace on earth? I tell you, Nay; but rather division.”
Eight Miles High And Falling Fast
“Tell the little thug that I’m not Dr. Dolittle.” Captain John W. McNabb stuttered through his chattering teeth. His young corporal Kip’s face tightened, then eased in understanding a moment later.
“Right, you don’t talk to animals, Sir?”
“You got it in one, Kip.” He turned back towards the wood burning stove warming this end of the officer’s tent, wondering how bad off the eleven thousand ‘youths’ nominally led by the Chicago New Black Panther Party must be without heat, power, and much food…not to mention indoor plumbing…now that winter was closing in. Food must be scarcer than hen’s teeth, as his downstate cornbelt momma had always said, for Kwaise Memf-whatshislips the third to send a scared gangbanger across the two mile no-man’s land of impromptu funeral pyres and scrap metal piles to the Indiana National Guard picket line. But, what was there left to talk about? McNabb’s Hoosiers (all three hundred and fifty of them), combat hardened in the fires of Peoria, just had to continue to hold Gary and this northeast end of the circle slowly choking down the Windy City until the Colonel said to let up. Nothing but a thing to John. Going on snipe hunts for ‘youths’ was what he did. He was a glorified cop, a peacekeeper, a stabilizer, and a first responder with air support…well, sometimes.
The grimy desk calendar held down flat on the split webbing of a lawn chair by his helmet told him that they had been here for nearly two months. Every time he staggered onto his cot to snatch an hour or two of regulation coma, he saw the pages staring at him accusingly. October winds blew chill off Lake Michigan, and the first snowfall could come at any time, so the sleeping bag covers were cool and damp beneath him, inviting. John said a quick but sincere prayer over his simple evening meal. He poked at the mystery meat on his tray with a fork and tried to recapture the last five months of downward spiraling chaos since Cinco Day. America had come under attack by minority insurgents. The nonWhite revolutionaries had nearly destroyed his nation. Only men like him, now, stood in their way. He added a prayer, postscript, for America.
Things had already been bad, before last Christmas. The country had been more polarized and divided than since the last civil war. Another round of corporate and big bank defaults, bailouts, failures, and closings. The U.S. budget deficit topping twenty trillion, with no end in sight. Congress refusing to act to limit the growth of government spending. They were afraid of upsetting the entitlement majority in their constituencies before the next election. The President was seen as weak and vacillating abroad, and abrasive at home. She had lost everyone’s respect.
Partisan politics had become so divisive that no middle ground was reachable. There was no more moderate middle, no more room for compromise. The Islamic State gained ground in the Middle East, mocking America as being cowardly and impotent. Another round of amnesty for illegal immigrants, under the guise of ‘immigration reform’, by Executive Order. Red State vs. Blue State. International banks, then foreign monetary exchanges, devalued the dollar three times in less than a month. The Federal Reserve responded by dropping interest rates to zero, but they couldn’t pay people to take dollars.
The real crippling agent was hyperinflation. John remembered the rising sense of fear as people scrambled to buy anything tangible, physical, of value. In descending order all of the gas, guns, ammo, and grocery store shelves were bought out. Either in a matter of days or hours, there was little left to buy, depending on where you were. Still, inflation soared. Many people took the chance to pay off their mortgages, car loans, and credit cards, but none of that really mattered, any more. The dollar became worthless. By February, hyperinflation had ended most consumer production and bitten deeply into slumping retail sales. The national unemployment rate reached fifteen percent. The Fed printed paper like it was free. Next, the stock market slipped, caught, and slipped again.
Heating oil prices doubled in the northeast. As Spring came, it seemed that there might be some respite. Then, somebody decided to kick us while we were down, McNabb thought bitterly. First Mexicans and other Latinos, and then blacks, attacked the U.S..
It had been a real stab in the back. The next illegal immigration amnesty plan was being opposed so staunchly by most White Americans that the “Secure Our Border” demonstrations made national headlines and led the t.v. news’ top stories throughout the month of April. Clashes with immigrant counter-protestors spread. Much of the opposition to more immigration was due to the nation having the highest rate of unemployment since the Great Depression. Admittedly, some of the resentment was due to racial tension, as well. The Mexican media and government responded by calling the demonstrations racist and antagonistic. They called on Mexicans on both sides of the border to resist, and fight back against ‘Yankee racism’. The rhetoric escalated quickly into violence. A group of elderly Tea Party activists protesting illegal immigration were savagely beaten by a group of Hispanic activists. Emboldened by that success, another group of Hispanics tried the same trick on a different anti-immigration group, but came away bloodied. One of the protesters was a concealed carry permit holder. Eight of the Latino gang members got to stay in America, the hard way. Some law enforcement agencies had abdicated their duties and responsibilities to the people, just as King George had done before 1776, in the Captain’s opinion. The people, then, had to do their jobs, for them.
On May 5th, organized and well-planned chain-fire counter-protests had ripped across the cities, from the southwest to the northeast. Rioting led to looting, and worst of all, to police departments being overwhelmed and in a couple of cases, simply outgunned. In several urban areas in border states, National Guard units were called up and just as quickly locked down because some units started shooting the protesters…or joining them, then shooting each other. The mass, organized rapes of White women and girls by Hispanic gangs began, as a terror tactic to drive Whites out. The growth of White militias exploded, in response. Unlike the anti-government fantasies of some ironically self-labeled ‘patriot’ groups, the reality of the situation was that most armed Whites became de facto White Nationalists, and most White Nationalists became counter-insurgents, counter-revolutionaries, fighting against the rebels. In most cases they found themselves fighting against those who were intent on destroying America, by fighting to defend whatever vestiges of law and order remained. It was the compassion and love of brave White men and women for their people, that drove them to defend their nation.
Public utilities began to fail, including fire, police, and water and sewer treatment. Power plants failed when employees stopped showing up for work because their pay, if it came at all, was worthless. The coal or fossil fuels used to fire many of them stopped being delivered. Riots, looting, and ethnic violence destroyed power lines, substations, and transformers. Some of it was deliberate sabotage. Electricity went out, and stayed out, in many urban areas, and across most of the nation. That was the end of law and order and civilization, except in isolated pockets where Whites preserved it by strength of arms. How had it happened? How had it all come undone so quickly? It was a blur. That’s why Cinco de Mayo was burned into John’s memory as the day it all went south. Like any divorce, though, the breakup had been anticlimactic in and of itself, and a long time coming.
Only the last three calendar flips since he’d been called up from his daytime gig as a High School principal were clear. Following orders, giving them down the line, and the routine boredom punctuated by moments of high pucker factor created real clarity. How he had gotten there, the secessions and declarations and ethnic cleansings of the heartbreaking summer were a smear on the lens of his glasses, and he refused to wipe it away. He liked things blurry, when it came to memories of what had happened, what was happening, to his country and his state. Better to keep moving forward. Like a shark. Better not to stop and think. Or sink, and die. Twenty-three million Americans had stopped swimming while he was on his little campout here. And sank.
The Captain hoped that Kip wouldn’t literally shoot the messenger this time, but McNabb could hardly blame the kid, if he did. His grandparents had been snowbirds, living just north of Phoenix. They had gotten caught behind enemy lines when Arizona went over to Del Norte. Now they were permanently retired, he guessed. No Anglos had squeezed out of there, except for a few Mormons who’d skedaddled to Utah, since about one-thousand six hundred ‘displaced persons’ were released by La Republica del Norte paper-pushers in Tempe as a “goodwill gesture” on the 4th of July. McNabb noted the irony of that. But all that he, and the Corporal, and the rest of their volunteer militia reinforced company of weekend warriors could do about that was here and now. That, and pray for their future. John had never thought of himself as a religious man. He had taken his girls to church, and prayed before meals, of course. Where he came from, that’s just what people did. But not seeing his family for so long, and being at risk of dying every day, sure made a believer out of you, he considered. What was that old saying, ‘there aren’t any atheists in foxholes’? They could pray. They could also snipe at this other enemy, and especially savor the occasional Mexican they found that the blacks hadn’t already shot up. Every Mexican was an MS-13 member, and a terrorist. Some of them swore in broken English that they weren’t, but everybody knew how Mexicans lied.
Most of the time, all they could do to vent their frustrations was send forays across the lines to sweep for White refugees here, and hold the line. Eventually, some bureaucrat in Springfield or Indy or St. Louis might broker a human cargo trade deal between the Chicago pocket and a few thousand White scarecrows holding out on the Gulf Coast, or in Detroit, if any were left there. Little Alamos and Littler Big Horns. Rumor had it that was the kind of thing they were trying to do, on both sides, where they were able to talk without gunplay. That seemed reasonable. People often weren’t reasonable, in McNabb’s experience. Any way it went, that kind of decision was above his Captain’s paygrade, not that he or any of the rest of them had seen a paycheck since August. Some stuck around because they still got fed and they were safer together than alone. He had a job to do. That helped keep his mind off of his wife Cindy, and their two girls so far away in Ft. Wayne, tonight.
The preceding is an excerpt from Chapter One of “Hasten The Day: The First Year Of The Balkanization Of America”; the first book in the “Hasten The Day” trilogy, by Billy Roper. Available at Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, Books-A-Million, and other fine online and brick-and-mortar booksellers. The first book in the trilogy now has 56 reader reviews and counting, with an overall rating of 4 out of 5. The trilogy may also be purchased as a single volume anthology.
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