Uncle Evans: A Fictional Tale of Anarcho-Tyranny in America

Please

 

Last weekend was bad for writing and this weekend will be too. I've got most of the next installment done but I need to polish it up.

 

Got a little case of writer's block?

 

No writer's block. Just got other fish that need to get fried.

 

Understand. The only reason that we complain, is that we enjoy your writing so much!

 

The Texas Hill Country. Mid-June.

Uncle Evans woke up to the sounds and smells of Kyle cooking breakfast. Evans rose slowly and groaned. His body protested and registered aches and pains from all the recent work. He eventually got out of bed, rubbed his bald head, then bent over to touch his toes. He got almost all the way there before his muscles refused to stretch any further. He straightened up and checked himself in the mirror. Bald. Deep wrinkles at the eyes. A face of gray stubble that was fading further to silver. Once he’d been old as measured by kids Kyle’s age. Then he’d gotten old as measured by the Marines around him. Now he was just plain old, and the gravity of what that meant really hit him. The best years of his life were behind him, truly. He’d done a lot of amazing things, things he’d never get the opportunity to do again. And even if he did get the opportunity, he might not be physically able to do them. The machine that was his body had a lot of miles on it. It didn’t have the speed, strength, flexibility, balance, or ability to recover that it once did. Time always won in the end.

But old or not, Evans had his nephew here for the rest of the summer and that was a good thing. Part of being a man of a certain age meant recognizing that you needed to maximize the moments you had left. When there wasn’t much time left on the clock you had to make each play count.

Evans went downstairs. Breakfast was bacon and eggs.

“Can we go to the store today?” Kyle asked.

“Sure. What do you need?”

“What do I need? We need something for breakfast besides bacon and eggs and sausage and eggs.”

“I like bacon and eggs. And I like sausage and eggs,” Evans said. He rubbed the remaining sleep out of his face and went to work on his chai. “I’m not some healthy food fanatic, but I’m not getting you a bunch of cereals that are nothing 90% sugar.”

“Oh yeah? That tea you drink is 90% sugar.”

“I earned this tea, and ain’t you full of piss and vinegar this morning. I thought kids your age stayed in bed until noon?”

“To tell the truth, I couldn’t get to sleep last night. When I finally did I just woke up an hour later and couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“The riots have you worried?”

“They don’t have you worried, uncle?”

Evans looked out his kitchen window to the rolling hills beyond. There was plenty of room to run out there. There were plenty of places to hide.

“Maybe they do,” Evans answered. “We can go to the store this afternoon when the heat’s up. This morning I want to finish off some work with George’s skid steer. You ever handle one of those before?”

“Nope. I guess I’m going to learn to do that today too.”

“Yeah,” Evans said. “Learning how to pull a trailer. Learning how to ride a motorcycle. It has been a productive summer for you so far.”

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed. “And the rifle. But I still haven’t learned to drive a stick.”

“We might get you there yet,” Evans said. His tea was ready.

“Skills,” Kyle said.

“Skills,” Evans agreed, and he took a sip of the steaming hot, syrupy sugar drink.


When they started work that morning, Kyle noticed something he hadn’t noticed the day before. The stock tank was gone. The big pile of scrap metal beside the barn was also gone. The bales of barbed wire were still there, each coated with rust. Kyle thought better of asking his uncle about where the stock tank went. Uncle Evans was doing something, but whatever it was, he wanted to keep it to himself. Kyle figured it was best to respect that.

So instead of asking questions, Kyle listened. He listened and learned. He listened when his uncle instructed him how to run the skid steer. He listened and learned when his uncle surveyed the ground in front of the house and explained the slope and the lay of the terrain and where he wanted Kyle to dig a trench, a trench that would face the drive and the long pile of brush on the other side.

"Everything you dig out I want you to pile up into a berm on the forward slope. That way it doesn't all just run downhill back into the hole you just dug,” Evans said. “Keep digging until the hole is chest deep. And if you’ve come to some rock that's too big for the machine, just dig around it. I’ve got some old pallets behind the barn. We’ll use them to shore up the sides of our little hole.”

Uncle Evans went to get his pallets. Kyle went to work. Before long Kyle had a trench that was maybe twelve feet long and almost chest-deep throughout. Here and there, huge chunks of limestone remained, too big for the machine to move.

“What do we do about those?” Kyle asked.

“Once upon a time, we would have drilled holes in them, filled them with dynamite, and blown them into smaller more manageable chunks. Dynamite is a no-go these days, but we can still use chemistry to solve this problem.” Uncle Evans produced a hammer drill and a plastic container that he handed to his nephew. Kyle read the label on the container out loud.

“’Expansive Grout. Cures in 24 hours.’ I’d rather use dynamite,” Kyle said with a grin.

“So would I, but this is pretty cool too,” Evans said. And the next lesson began. Together they drilled holes in the limestone boulders. Then Evans showed Kyle how to mix the grout so they could pour it into the holes. When they were done, they were both soaked with sweat and covered with limestone dust.

“Nothing else we can do until the grout cures, and it is too hot anyway. Let’s get cleaned up and hit the store,” Evans said.

While Kyle got cleaned up, Evans went into the office and grabbed the carbine off the rack on the wall. He took that and a couple of loaded magazines and loaded them into his truck. In addition to these, he brought along a pistol with its own spare magazines. Evans didn’t like going into town. Any town. And by town, he didn’t mean city. He meant town. Cities and towns meant people, people he didn't know, and people that weren't from his “tribe.” In his experience that meant danger. Even in the relative safety of the United States, thousands of miles and decades away from his violent past, Evans couldn’t just turn off his feelings of apprehension or his compulsion to remain hyper-alert. He’d been through too much.

Kyle offered to drive, but Evans took the wheel. He didn’t turn on the radio, and he barely spoke on the drive. Kyle sensed his uncle’s unease and didn’t try and start a conversation. The sun was high, and the glare was bright. The road noise hummed inside the truck. Evans felt his mind drifting towards places he didn’t want to go back to. His knuckles went white as he gripped the steering wheel.

They made it to the supermarket without incident. Evans parked his truck about as far away from the entrance as he could get, the nose facing out for a quick getaway. There were no other cars parked anywhere near them.

"You know what you want," Evans asked. Kyle said he did. Evans' eyes scanned the parking lot once more, looking for anything he didn’t like. Looking for any people he did not like.

“Okay, let’s go in and get it, and then get back out. Quick.”

The inside of the supermarket was expansive in the American fashion. Luckily, it wasn’t crowded. It was noon on a weekday. There weren’t a lot of shoppers out. Evans was thankful for that. They grabbed a cart and moved up and down the aisles slowly. Kyle seemed to know what he wanted, and so he led the way. Evans followed his nephew, not really thinking about shopping.

They drifted from one aisle to the next. Kyle grabbed some things here. He grabbed some more things there. They turned another corner and headed down an aisle loaded with sodas in cans and bottles.

“You want more of that cola you drink?” Kyle asked. Evans grunted out a yes, but he wasn’t consciously in this market anymore. His mind was in another market, in another part of the world, in a time long past.

“Anything?” The major asked. The major leaned over the hood of an armored truck. The major looked like a man whose life had been one long series of bar fights, and he always looked like he was on his way to one more. The truck was as worn as the man. Large swaths of its desert tan paint had worn away, revealing shades of woodland green beneath. In several places, the body of the truck had been smashed and dented. The bulletproof windows along one side were all pockmarked from shrapnel. The truck and the major suited each other.

“We can’t see shit, sir. A bunch of the shelves got blown over. The robot can’t move. Too much shit scattered in the aisles.”

Evans and another EOD technician hovered over a display screen that showed a feed from their bomb disposal robot. The robot was inside what passed for the local 7-11. That store had just been rocked by an improvised explosive device. Nobody had been killed, luckily. But the locals said there was another IED inside the store. Now the locals were all gathered around. They wanted to watch and see what the Americans might do about that last bomb. That, or they wanted to see some Americans get blown up. Either would help pass the time.

“One more. One more,” the local policeman said in heavily accented English. The policeman had a thick black mustache. The major nodded.

“One more, huh? Does he know where it is?” A translator wearing tan coveralls and a helmet two sizes too big, jabbered with the policeman. When they were done, the policeman turned to the major.

“He doesn’t know where it is, but he knows there is one more,” the translator said.

“One more. One more,” the policeman said.

“One more. Got it,” the major said. He sounded like a man who’d been through this a thousand times before and was just too tired to be upset.

A man standing next to the major wore a flight suit the same color as the local dust. He wore one radio in a pack on his back and a second radio in a pouch on his chest. He was a stark contrast to the major. The man in the flight suit had the boyish good looks of a male model or a teenage pop singer. In truth, he’d been both before joining the Marines. The man in the flight suit never stopped smiling. The major looked incapable of any emotion save maybe blind rage. The major used words as sparingly as if he had to pay for them. The man in the flight suit, for no reason at all, would periodically break out into song. One of his radios crackled with the sound of an impatient voice. The man in the flight suit held a handset to his ear. He listened, then he spoke to the major.

“It’s Law-Dog-Six-Actual. He says this ain’t our problem. And he wants us to get out of here.”

Evans looked over the faces of all the people nearby. They were all either brown-skinned boys or brown-skinned men. The brown-skinned kids wore hand-me-down western clothes and smiled at the Americans. The brown-skinned men all had mustaches just like the policeman, and not one of them smiled. They glared at the Americans. The major looked over those faces too and came to the same conclusion as Evans.

“If they watch us leave and then ten minutes later their neighborhood blows up, it will be our problem.”

The officer in the flight suit said, “We’ve got a UAV on top of us, feeding back to Law-Dog.”

“It’s a good thing they are watching out for us,” a nearby second lieutenant said appreciatively. Up to this point, he'd been doing what second lieutenants were supposed to do, keep their mouths shut and their eyes and ears open.

“They aren’t watching out for us,” the major corrected. “They are watching us. Watching to see if we leave like we’ve been ordered.” The major turned to Evans. “I can buy you about ten minutes. Can you find the other bomb?”

Evans looked at the faces of the kids gathered around. Bright white smiles amongst the mustaches and the glares. Evans wondered how many of those kids would be dead between now and the next time he came back here. Everybody who was paying attention knew the situation. The locals were just waiting for the Americans to leave and when they did, they’d start killing each other wholesale again. Whoever put this bomb in the local store must not have gotten that memo. Or maybe they were impatient. Or maybe they wanted to take one last shot at the Americans. Or maybe they just wanted to blow people up and they didn't care who they killed as long as they killed somebody. There were a lot of possibilities. But if a couple of kids got killed and the locals felt the Americans could have prevented it, it would cause the kind of trouble nobody needed.

“I’ll find it,” Evans said. To the other bomb tech he said, “No time for the suit. I’ll go in slick. Just get the robot loaded back up.” The second bomb tech nodded dutifully. His name was Hauptman and two years later, he'd drown in a training accident off the California Coast. For the rest of his life, Evans would regret not getting to know the man better.

The inside of the store was a mess. It looked more like an earthquake went off than a bomb had exploded. All the strange, foreign products had been knocked off their shelves and scattered across the floor. A couple of shelf systems had been toppled over from the blast. A ceiling fan was on the floor. Fluorescent lights hung by their wires. The blast also shattered a glass cooler door. The air coming out of the cooler was cold enough that you could see it and Evans realized just how hot it was outside. He stepped over a pile of bread and pre-packaged food items whose labels were written in a scrolling language he could not read. He stopped, wiped the sweat off his brow with a faded green cravat, then looked around the store for the second bomb. He remembered the words of one of his instructors back at Eglin Air Force Base.

“You’re not looking for the thing that doesn’t belong. You’re looking for the thing that looks like it is supposed to belong but doesn’t belong. You aren’t looking for a zebra in a herd of giraffes. You are looking for a horse in a herd of zebras, only some mother fucker spray painted the horse black and white. That’s ‘cuz he’s packed the horse full of HME and only needs you to not notice for a few seconds before he blows all your fuck-tarded asses up.”

Evans' eyes moved slowly across the store.

Along the back wall of the store sat a row of metal containers. Evans couldn’t read the scrolling script on them, but he spent enough time in this country to know they contained cooking oil. Amongst the containers, he found what he was looking for. One container was the same size and shape as all the others. It was even roughly the same colors. But its label said “Transmission Fluid” in English. Evans looked at its lid. It was resealed. Not sealed, but resealed.

Evans reached up to the radio on his vest and turned it off. He toed the metal container with his boot. It wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t full of transmission fluid or cooking oil or any other liquid.

Evans considered the container carefully, then he knelt down and took off the lid.

The IED was made up of several Soviet-era OG-7 40mm frag grenades, daisy-chained together with braids of cheap blue explosive cord. Electrical wires pulled out of a car or an old appliance connected the blasting caps to a Norwegian cell phone. It wasn’t a sophisticated device. It wasn’t even especially lethal. It was hardly even worth building. But inside a store full of kids, it would be lethal enough.

Evans knew there weren’t any anti-tamper devices. The good bomb makers were all either dead or waiting for the Americans to leave. He checked for anti-tamper devices anyway. Not finding any, he disconnected the phone. Then he removed the blasting caps for good measure.

On the way out, Evans stopped at the store’s cooler. They didn’t have Coke or Pepsi in this country. Evans took out two 2-liter bottles of RC Cola. He found a pack of Pine cigarettes behind the counter, and he grabbed those too. He opened a pocket on his Nomex coveralls and took out a US Twenty-Dollar bill. Then he took out a second bill for good measure and left them both on the counter.

“Tell the locals I found the bomb,” Evans said to the major. “It’s disarmed. It’s in a metal bucket in the back.”

“What was it?” the major asked.

“Not the bomb I’d build,” Evans said. “Left over junk mostly. Wasn’t worth the blasting caps it took to make it. You got time for a smoke?” Evans ripped open the pack.

“We should get going. Law-Dog is all over my ass,” The major said. He didn’t move though. He took an offered cigarette and slowly smoked it over the hood of his truck.

“Can I get one of those?” the handsome man with the radios asked.

“No, you can’t,” the major said.

Evans offered up a cigarette anyway. The three men smoked their cigarettes. Somebody twisted the cap off one of the bottles. The carbonated soda hissed. It was cold and sweet and Evans drank almost half before passing it around. The local police came out of the store, bomb in hand. The locals went into the store. The radio crackled with impatient demands. The two officers didn’t move to answer the radio, so Evans felt no need to do so either. The three leaned over the hood of the armored vehicle, smoked their cigarettes in the summer heat, and savored their small victory.

 

Worth waiting for! Thanks!

 

“Evans!”

Evans left the memories of his past behind and returned to reality. He spun and saw one of his neighbors at the other end of the soda aisle.

“Evans,” the man repeated, a little too loud for Evans’ liking.

“Hey there Dale. What’s happening?”

Dale was another middle-aged man, tall, but soft and doughy in spots with thinning hair. He dressed like a middle-aged man, and Evans immediately noticed the bulge under the man’s shirt, right at his appendix.

"Who's this?" Dale asked. The man was looking at Kyle. Evans did not dislike Dale, but he didn't exactly trust the man either. He didn't know why he didn't, he just didn't. Evans had reached the age where he didn't feel he needed a reason not to trust anybody. He had been around enough people in enough places that if his gut told him somebody was off, he trusted his gut.

“This is my nephew. We’re just out shopping.” Evans intentionally did not give his nephew’s name. Instead, he changed the subject. “What’s going on? You look like you got something on your mind.”

Dale looked around conspiratorially. There was nobody else in the aisle. Evans was happy about the cue and took it.

"Hey, nephew. Why don't you keep shopping? I'll catch up with you in a bit."

Kyle was quick enough to catch on and made his escape. The two old men stood alone amongst the root beers and diet colas.

“So, what’s on your mind?”

“Are you following all these riots and attacks? They’re happening everywhere. All over the country. This ain’t like before. They’re coming out into the suburbs. They’re coming into people’s homes. The police are damn near escorting them.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about ‘em,” Evans said.

“Well, we got to do something about ‘em,” Dale said. Evans sucked his teeth. He’d been afraid something like this might happen. It was only a matter of time before somebody got the idea of putting together some kind of neighborhood watch. His military background wasn’t exactly a secret, which made Evans a good candidate to lead such an endeavor, even if he didn’t want to.

“We’re a good distance from anywhere anybody would want to go,” Evans said.

“That’s the damned thing,” Dale said, his voice rising a little. “They’re coming out to nowhere. They’re coming for the suburbs. They’re coming for us. A couple of places got burned up out by New Brahmfeld a couple of nights ago. Farms. Those PVD kids from the college, no doubt. Then you got what happened in Raleigh and Oklahoma. Everybody knows what’s going on. We got to do something about it.”

"The best thing you can do when they come is not be around," Evans answered. “You got plenty of acres of hills and scrub to hide in. That’s about the only winning play if the PVD shows up.”

“I do that, and they’ll burn my house down. And what happens then? I can’t allow that. I’ve worked my whole life for that. Everything I own. Everything my family owns. I need the equity in my house if my kids are ever going to see college. I can’t just let it burn.”

“If the PVD comes and you defend your house it may not burn down but you’ll lose it anyway. Some District Attorney will prosecute you and take your house and every other thing you owned or might have owned.”

"I'd rather take my chances in a courtroom than lose everything I own," Dale replied. He was speaking louder now, and Evans turned his head looking up and down the aisle, making sure nobody was around.

"That's the thing, Dale. You won't have a chance in a courtroom. You'll be guilty before you even get before the judge. It's just a question of how much they're going to make you suffer before they let the judge do his thing. The PVD and the government, they're one and the same. If you shoot a PVD, you might as well shoot a cop because that's the level of trouble you'll be in. It is just a damn house Dale.”

“Not to me it ain’t,” Dale said. He looked around again. This time he spoke in a whisper. “But what if it ain't about the houses? What if they come and start killing people?” Dale asked. “What if they come and start rounding people up and killing them? Huh? ‘Cause you know that’s what’s next. They've gotten away with so much already that they're going to try for more. They're going to round people up and kill them next.”

Evans shook his head. "It ain't next. It's already happened, plenty of times. It is just that nobody talks about it." He shook his head again but he looked his neighbor in the eye and asked, “What are you thinking, exactly?”

Dale explained that he wanted to set up some kind of neighborhood watch, with a communications plan, so that if the PVD came the neighbors could all get organized quickly; grab their guns and confront the mob somehow.

“But not all the neighbors. Not Lori,” Dale said. “She’d likely be marching with the PVD if it came down to it. But I talked to John and George about it already.”

“You did? What did they say?”

“They said they’re in,” Dale said. “They’re in, but you’re the one we need. You’re the one who’s done this type of thing before.”

“I don’t know about that,” Evans said. “I disarmed bombs. I didn’t organize patrols exactly.” Evans looked around the store. He didn’t see Kyle, but he knew the kid was there. This discussion with Dale got him back to the same dilemma. If things went south, what was the best way to protect his nephew? In the short term the answer was obvious; run into the woods and hide until everything was over. But in the long term? Was it right to let his nephew grow up in a world ruled by a government-sanctioned mob? Evans shook his head again. If you got into a confrontation with the PVD then your life was over. It would not be like the books or the movies. Right, wrong, justified, or not. The government wasn't going to let somebody win against the PVD. They just weren’t.

“Dale, let’s talk about this somewhere else,” Evans said. “I ain’t saying yes, but I ain’t saying no either. I need to sit down with you and make sure everybody knows what this will mean because it won’t be like you think.”

 

Its old, but in case anybody did not know what I was referencing in an earlier chapter.

 

Wanted to get this next part out before Tuesday.

 

Interlude.

Dallas Texas.

Following the Raleigh-Durham Executions, America's elites cranked up the mourning theater. Flags descended to half-mast. Avatars on social media accounts changed. Octogenarian politicians conducted their poorly rehearsed games of playacting, demonstrating the empathy they felt towards the constituents they never saw. Corporate leaders expressed their grief and solidarity by having their publicists craft saccharine sweet messages, all 280 characters board approved and reviewed by legal before posting.

Deep inside a federal building in Dallas, two prosecutors met. One worked for the federal government. The other worked for a local government. Uncle Evans’ corner of Texas was within that one’s jurisdiction.

“What went down in Raleigh is the playbook for any illegal use of force cases regarding the PVD or the rioters,” the federal attorney said. His name was Teddy. What he was calling “illegal use of force” most Americans once called “self-defense.” Once, but not now. The rules of the game had changed, and the federal attorney was on the side that changed the rules. He continued while his audience of one listened.

“Every case will initially be prosecuted locally. Once you get a conviction at the local level, we’ll pile on at the federal level. After that, if the dumb chump has anything left… a house, kid’s college fund, 401K, grandmother’s wedding ring, his dead father’s baseball cards… we’ll pave the way for a civil suit.”

"Why not just come in at the federal level right from the start?" The district attorney asked. His name was Greg. He wasn’t from Texas. He had no ties to the area. But political winds had sent him there to do necessary work.

“The last thing we want is to step in right off the bat with federal charges on every single use of force case involving the PVD. The optics aren’t good. It’ll look like federal overreach. That’s why we need local prosecutors who are on board to make the initial charges. We’ll have to step in and make up the difference in the places where the locals aren’t on the team. But we can’t step in every time.”

“But some of these cases…” Greg began. “Raleigh was one thing. But this thing in Oklahoma City. They were in that man’s house. They’d set fire to the house next door. The ones that he shot were all armed. The guy was a decorated combat veteran.”

“None of that matters. What matters is he shot protestors. He shot our protestors, and that cannot be tolerated. And when some stinky-ass fly-over tangles with the PVD… and this is going to happen more… they are no longer combat veterans or decorated veterans. If they tangle with our guys then it means they're unstable veterans. ‘Dangerously Unstable Veterans.’ That’s the term we’re supposed to use going forward. Dangerously Unstable Veteran means they’ve got anger issues. It means they’ve got PTSD. It means they scare their kids and hit their wives and they need to be taken off the streets. It means instead of getting the help offered by the VA they spend all day in their basement reading conspiracy theories and misinformation on the internet. It means the gun they used they stole out of some National Guard Armory, even if they didn’t. It means they are a ‘Dangerously Unstable Veteran,’ and that’s the term we’re all going to use.”

“I get all that, but Teddy, we’re not back in New York anymore. The self-defense laws here are too accommodating to the citizens. I’ve got to make a case that will stand up before a judge.”

“Don’t worry about making solid cases and don’t worry about any judges. If a protestor or a PVD activist gets hurt just arrest the guy that did it and file charges. And make it high profile, and I mean high profile. The elections are right around the corner. Don’t worry about getting your cases in front of a judge. Worry about getting your cases in front of the TV cameras. After this election, the case will come. DOJ’s got your back on that. Get their family members too if you can. Taxes. Environmental Crimes. Whatever. Some good media coverage of kids getting hauled off into foster care is perfect. The HHS agents taking away all those kids from the Raleigh Executions… that footage was fucking gold. Half the mothers in America are going to be tossing their husband’s guns in the trash.”

Greg sipped at his coffee. It had a hint of pecans. He didn’t like it. The coffee back in New York was better. Everything in New York was better he thought.

“Maybe, but I’ve got an election coming up too. I made the last one by the skin of my teeth. If that old man didn’t kick that money into my campaign, I wouldn’t have held onto the office.”

“Your election is not what you need to worry about. The House, the Senate, the White House, that’s what counts. I don’t know why you’d want to stay out here anyway Greg. I sure don’t. We’re doing our part for freedom I guess, just like those guys that landed at Normandy. Just get us through these next couple of months, get our party through the election and I’ll see to it you get out of Texas and into somewhere nice. Boston, Chicago, New York. Anywhere. Just make the arrests, file the charges and get it all out on the press. High visibility. Big headlines.

“And guns. Guns are good too. DOJ is going to implement a program this week. There are going to be bounties paid out for successful gun prosecutions. Paid out directly to the prosecutors. Big numbers too. A good way for you to get some extra money."

“Where’s all this money coming from?”

“The President’s opening up Title 50 funds. Domestic terror intersecting with foreign collusion and election interference. You know, ‘the need to secure the election and protect our democracy.’ With Title 50 the funding floodgates are going to open. And we’re moving fast too. This isn’t the normal speed of government. The next few months are going to be a sprint, all the way up to the election.”

“The election? Teddy, it's June. The election isn't until November. These riots are going to keep going for the whole summer?”

“They are, and we’re going to keep them going. Listen, Greg, we're not up against the opposition party of days gone by. You used to be able to count on them to compromise at the last minute and do the right thing. But these new people? They are committed. I mean committed, Greg. They’re fanatics. These are the guys in the Middle East that strapped bombs to their chests. And they’ve taken over the opposition party. That, and they hate people like us Greg. Government workers. They hate us. They have no appreciation for how hard we work for them or the sacrifices we make. They are ungrateful, upstart, little, middle-class shits. That’s why we’ve got to hold onto the levers of government. That’s why we’ve got to break them. That’s what these riots are all about. Every American is going to see the PVD in action. Burning and looting. The riots are going to keep going right into November, and the only way they are going to stop is if every American goes out and votes the correct way on election day. Nothing else will stop the protests, and if anybody tries…” Teddy shook his head. “Examples have to be made. Some Americans have to be made bankrupt, humiliated, and imprisoned. Their families will have to be destroyed. Jobs and businesses will have to be taken away. Kids made pariahs. It is not personal. But we can’t let the wrong people get elected. It is that simple.”

“We don’t need them in the courtroom. We need them in front of the camera,” the one lawyer repeated.

“We’ll get the convictions. But first, we need the clicks,” the federal lawyer said.

Gregg toyed with the coffee cup on its saucer. “What if it doesn’t work?” He asked. “What if the riots don’t work and the voters vote incorrectly? What then?” Teddy emphatically shook his head no and then leaned forward and spoke softly.

“If worse comes to worst, even if the vote doesn’t go our way, our party won’t be leaving office. We’ve got plans for that too. We will win this election. Period. Full stop. The only question is how painful does the other side want to make it for themselves before they admit that we won?”

 

Almost sounds like you're writing about today's shenanigans going on

 

great

 

very good

 

It kinda writes itself.

 

If you need to read something between installments, I've got a few other stories posted up around the Internet:

Across the Scimitar
The Spartan's Last March
The Spartan's Ashes
Flip of the Coin
Overt Actions

 

GREAT! Can't wait for the next post!

 

The Texas Hill Country. 3 July.

Evans fiddled with some dishes at the kitchen counter, stopped, and stretched. His back hurt from the day before, pulling out the last broken hunks of limestone from the trench he and his nephew dug. If he was honest with himself, more than just his back hurt. His knees and his elbows hurt too. And his shoulders. And pretty much everything else. He wasn’t young anymore, and he felt it. Stretching, Evans caught sight of his nephew out the kitchen window. Kyle walked out of the scrub and thickets and approached the house.

"How was it?" Evans asked when Kyle came back inside.

"Easy," Kyle answered. He went to the fridge to get something cold to drink. It was early, but it was already hot.

"No problem finding your way down to the highway?" Evans asked. They’d incorporated a new ritual into their day. Every morning before breakfast, Kyle had to take the footpath down to the highway and back. It wasn’t far. Even so, Evans wanted to know, he wanted to be absolutely certain that Kyle could find his way.

"No problem," Kyle answered. He took out some orange juice and drank straight from the plastic bottle. Evans didn’t say anything about that.

"You’re positive you made it to the sign?"

"I made it to the sign."

"What did the sign say?"

"It said Farm-to-Market route number Who-Gives-A-Shit. Same as it said yesterday."

"Who taught you how to talk like that?"

"My ne’er do well uncle," Kyle answered with a smile.

"Well, maybe you learned something on this visit," Evans fired back. Then he asked, "You want to make more of those breakfast burritos you made the other day?"

"You don’t want bacon and eggs again for like the five millionth time in your life?"

"I’d rather have bacon and eggs, but I figured I’d humor my upstart nephew."

"Then sure. You want to just eat at the counter today?" Kyle asked. And he tapped the large wooden box that occupied half of the breakfast table. Uncle Evans’ salvaged camera tower occupied the other half. Kyle ran a finger down one of the box’s joints where the two pieces of plywood came together.

"Glue’s dry," Kyle announced. He examined the box further. He and his uncle built it the day before, using the table saw and a variety of other tools in Evans’ shop. The box was slanted on one end so that it could rest on the roof of the house. The opposite end was built with a nest that would accommodate the base of the camera tower. The box would go on the roof and the camera would go on the box and from there the camera could see all the way out to the entrance of the Silver Springs development. Kyle ran his finger down another seam on the box and found a clump of dried wood glue. He took out his pocketknife, opened it, and scraped away the lump of glue.

"What are we doing today?" Kyle asked.

We’ll go visit my neighbor, John. Now that the base is built, I’d like to get this camera working and up on the roof. He can put the final touches on this."


John’s house was a short drive towards the entry into Silver Springs. His house was like any other, just a bit closer to the main road than Uncle Evans’. John was another old guy, a retiree. He was balding, tall, and lean. He was one of those old men who seemed to get skinnier past middle age instead of rounder. Kyle learned that John had done a stint in the Air Force, then got out and worked for the local electric company until he retired. His daughters were grown and out of the house. When John opened the door, he greeted them both with a smile. John’s wife sat on a couch watching TV and did not get up when Evans and Kyle came inside. John made no attempt to introduce her.

"Let’s head into the garage and take a look at what you’ve got there," John said after the initial pleasantries. Kyle shot a quick glance over toward the coach and John’s wife. The light of daytime TV flickered across her pale, blank face.

John's garage was big. Four bays total. The walls were lined with tool chests and workbenches and pegboards loaded with all kinds of gizmos and instruments that Kyle didn't recognize. But what immediately drew Kyle's attention was the truck.


The truck was a 1990 Dodge Ram, black on black accentuated with gleaming chrome. It was lifted, and the top of the cab wasn’t too far from the ceiling of the garage. It looked and smelled clean. The driver’s window was open. Kyle walked over and stuck his head inside.

"Help you with something?" John asked.

Kyle retracted his head with a quickness and looked at John, embarrassed. He stammered out, "Cool truck. Just checking on the transmission."

John raised an eyebrow.

"Kid doesn't know how to drive a manual transmission," Evans explained. "We’ve been looking for something with a manual he can learn on." Now John looked embarrassed.

"Can’t help you there. That truck of mine won’t even go. The drive shaft has been out on this one for a while now."

"Yeah. George mentioned that the other day. When are you going to get that fixed?"

"Probably never. I got the parts I need, just need the time to take the old one out and put the new one in. I’d love to let you drive it though. I was going to give that truck to one of my girls, but neither one wanted it. The older one said it was too big and the younger one said it was too old.

"Don’t sweat it," Evans said. "I got a line on a truck with a stick."

"Fair enough. Well. Let’s have a peek at this project of yours."

Evans nodded to Kyle who pulled the tower out of a big cardboard box. John whistled.

"Uncle Sam must be missing that."

"Uncle Sam never even knew it was gone," Evans said. "I’m not smart, but I’m smart enough to know not to take anything from the government that they might miss."

"Fair enough. And I see you got a laser mounted alongside the camera too. What is that all about?"

"I’ll fill you in on that later," Evans said. "What I need now is to be able to run this off my home’s power. It was designed to run off vehicle power. The last thing I want to do is plug it into the house and fry something."

"That’ll be easy," John said. He took the tower in both hands, lifted it up, and looked it over. "Of course, if it is wired into your residential power and the grid goes down…?"

"I’ve got solar and battery backups, remember?"

"That’s right," John said. He set the big tower down on a workbench. To Kyle he said, "You’re the youngest, that makes you the gopher. I want you to go fer’ a couple of things over in that blue tool chest. You know what a multi-meter is?"

"Yes, sir," Kyle answered. John looked impressed.

"I'm glad to hear that. I thought all you kids did nowadays was play video games."

"Kyle’s taken some robotics classes," Evans said proudly.

"Is that a fact? Good. Well. First, we need to get the cover off. Go get me a Philips head screwdriver. There's one in the second drawer over there with a pink handle. Get that and the multi-meter in the drawer below it and we’ll see where we go from there."



John had all the tools, parts, and pieces he needed. In less than an hour he set his soldering iron down with some satisfaction.

"Well. Let’s plug it in and see how it works."

Kyle plugged the tower into the wall outlet. The system powered up quickly. Evans held up the remote control and began tapping. The camera zoomed in and out and out and panned up and down. As the camera went through its motions, the display screen imaged what the camera was seeing.

"Looks good so far," John said.

"Let’s check out the dazzler. Put your glasses on," Evans said. Kyle put on some safety glasses his uncle had brought along. Evans tapped another button on the remote control. Brilliant green laser light beamed out of the Dazzler and danced across the garage wall. John smiled proudly. Evans kept tapping the controls. The camera swung left and right. The Dazzler, mounted co-axially with the camera, kept its place.

"Well. Looking good. Looking really good," John said. Evans agreed.

"Yeah. Let’s check it at distance though. I want to make sure the laser is zeroed in with the camera."

They opened the garage door and used a shed at the other end of John’s yard as a target for the camera/laser combo.

"Looks like the laser is a little off. Toe it in a little," John said. Evans used a small screwdriver to make a few twists on the laser’s mount.

"Much better," John said. Kyle looked into the display unit. The Dazzler’s green light was perfectly centered in the camera’s field of view.

"Perfect," Evans said.

John smiled too, but his mood changed and Kyle could sense the tension increase a little when John started talking.

"Glad I could help you out with that, Evans," John said. "Maybe you can help me with something. Got a few minutes to talk?"

The smile left Evans’ face as if it were never there. He turned to his nephew and said, "Mind loading all this stuff into the truck while John and I talk a bit?"

Kyle looked from his uncle to his uncle’s neighbor. Kyle was young, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what his uncle was really asking for, and he trusted his uncle enough to do it without any questions or protests. Once Kyle disappeared, Evans spoke.

"I’m guessing Dale talked to you?"

"He did," John said. "And he talked to George too."

Evans shook his head. "Who else did he talk to?

John shrugged an ‘I don’t know.’ Evans rolled his eyes in disapproval.

"Three is enough. Dale’s idea isn’t the kind of thing you talk about in the open. You don’t necessarily bring it up with friends. You don’t even bring it up relatives, for a whole list of reasons. This is the kind of thing where you better know who the hell you are talking to before you bring it up."

"Got it."

"Do you get it? Does Dale? Does anybody?" Evans asked, and he flashed his eyes once to the door that led into the house.

John's eyes flashed toward the same door leading into the house before he answered. "She and I don't talk much anymore. Not since the girls moved out. The girls and I don’t talk much either… not unless they need money."

"So as far as you know, just you and me, Dale and George talked about this?"

"That everybody as far as I know," John answered.

"Good. Keep it that way," Evans said. "Now, if you want to talk, let’s talk."

John kept a refrigerator in his fridge. He went to it and took out a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of Coke. He poured himself a drink. When he went to pour Evans another, Evans made a horizontal slicing moment with his hand.

"Just the Coke for me today."

John handed Evans a glass of Coke, sipped his own drink, and started. "Well. Dale thinks we need to form some kind of neighborhood defense network."

"Yeah, so he said," Evans replied.

"What do you think about that?"

"My feelings on that are mixed," Evans said. "On the one hand, I don't want to see my house get burned down. On the other, I don't want to spend the rest of my life in jail, which is exactly what'll happen if any of us form some defensive militia and then end up popping one of these PVD kids."

"That’s the damned thing about it," John said. His voice rose in volume and pitch. "These PVD are burning things down, attacking people, maybe even shooting people and the police aren’t doing anything."

"They are doing something," Evans said. "They’re letting it happen. And if you do anything to stop it from happening, they’ll sweep in the next day and put you in cuffs, just like they did to those folks in Raleigh. Just like they did to that retired Sailor in Oklahoma."

"Well. Dammit, what are we supposed to do then?" John asked. "We just have to sit here and take it? They got it so we can’t do anything!"

"That’s the whole point," Evans said. "They got it so you can’t do anything but sit and take it and hope that when the election comes around in November it all goes away. That isn’t by accident."

John shook his head. "It ain’t a fair fight."

"Sure it is," Evans said. "Each side can fight as dirty as it wants to. It's just that one side doesn’t want to fight at all."

"Well, that’s the bind we’re in, ain’t it? You don’t fight, your house gets burned down, you and your family get your asses kicked or maybe killed. You do stand up, maybe your house doesn’t get burned down but the state comes down on you and destroys your life anyway. And there ain't nobody going to stand up for you or stand by you. Nobody at all, not even the people who say they are on our side. You can bend the knee, die, or stand on your own against the storm. Given those options, I’d rather be alive and standing against the storm."

"There’s another option. You can always just run," Evans said. "We ain’t packed in one on top of the other like some Seattle suburb. We all got land. Run into the woods and hide out until the PVD passes. I don’t see them combing through the woods looking for people. Once they've burned and looted they’ll move on. Maybe you lose your house, but you stay alive and won’t get jammed up and have your life ruined by some prosecutor."

"If you can get out into the woods in time," John said.

"If you can get out in time," Evans agreed.

"Plus-wise, after they burn down one neighborhood they’ll just move on to the next one. And the next one. And the next one. And they’ll just keep going. And maybe if the election turns out the way they want, they’ll stop. Or maybe, they get the election results they want but they decide now they want something else, and the whole thing starts up again."

"That is true," Evans agreed.

"And in that case, the only people that are going to stop them are ordinary people. Nobody in the government is going to do it. Cops. Sheriffs. The Feds. The state of Texas. Left. Right. Up. Down. None of them are coming to help us. We’re on our own."

"That is also true," Evans agreed.

"You’re right, Evans. You’re right about it being easier to run." John shrugged. "The thing of it is, Dale and I, we got our roots here. Our whole lives. And George, his family has a fortune invested in building that mansion. So, maybe none of us want to run. Maybe we feel we need to stand our ground, come what may."

"It won’t just be you. It’ll be your families too. Your friends. Your co-workers. You are signing them up for this ride too, whether they know it or not."

"We’ve considered that."

"Have you?" Evans asked. "If that’s the case, you can do this on your own. You don’t need me."

"We can’t do it without you," John said. "You’re the one with all the experience."

"I wasn’t Special Forces. I didn’t raise armies and train freedom fighters. I found bombs. Besides, you were in the military too."

"I was in the Air Force and I fixed electronics. That was all decades ago. And I never went to the Middle East, or anywhere else really. Besides, it ain’t just your training. It is you. You’re the only one with the leadership skills to do this. Dale maybe came up with the idea, but he ain't got what it takes to put it together. You’re the backbone of this thing. Without you there it ain’t happening."

Evans lookout the open garage door to where Kyle was waiting in the truck. His back suddenly ached again. "I don’t think I want to be a leader."

"The best leaders never do," John said with a knowing smile. That made Evans wince. He took in a deep breath and blew it out slowly.

"You going to do the 4th of July here?" Evans asked. John always invited the neighborhood over on the 4th of July for a barbecue and fireworks. John sucked his teeth.

"Yeah, we’re doing it again, same as before. Not sure how many people will show up. The neighborhood isn't what it used to be. Nothing's been the same since my girls moved out. And my wife," John jerked his thumb towards the interior of the house, indicating his wife. "She ain’t into it anymore. All she wants to do is sit on the couch and watch TV. You coming by?"

"Yeah, we’ll be there," Evans said.

"Dale and George will be coming by too," John offered.

"I figured as much," Evans said. He sighed again. "Okay. Maybe we can talk more about it then. All of us. Together. I need some time to think about this."

John gave a sly smile and asked, "You gonna bring any of your own fireworks again this year?"

"Maybe. I haven’t put any thought into it to be honest."

"Well. The fourth is tomorrow. If you want to make another batch of your own stuff you only got one day."

"We’ll see," Evans said.



After John's, they both headed back home. Uncle Evans brought out a step ladder. They mounted the camera system on the roof and wired it in. From the office, they could control the camera and the laser and see whatever it was seeing. The camera gave them a view all the way down to the entrance to Silver Springs. They even had a view into Lori’s backyard. They were both satisfied with their work.

"What now," Kyle asked. Evans leaned over and stretched his back and shoulders. His joints made popping sounds.

"Now I take a break."

"Want me to make dinner tonight?" Kyle asked.

"You that sick of my cooking?"

Kyle shrugged but smiled. Evans nodded.

"I’d love for you to make dinner. The Vice President is giving an interview in a bit. I think I’ll sit down in the office and catch that if you don’t mind." Evans said. He realized his knees hurt too and he went to the freezer to grab some ice.

"You okay?" Kyle asked.

"I’m fine. I’m just old," Evans said.

In the office, Evans sat with his legs up and ice on both knees. The components of a full-length rifle covered the desk. Evans had stripped it down and cleaned it while he waited for the live stream of the Vice President to begin. He’d been running patches through the 20-inch barrel when the stream began, a cola over ice close at hand. Once the interview got going, he set down the rifle receiver and sipped at his drink. The Vice President spoke.

"We need to be very conscious. And we need to be very deliberate. We need to consciously deliberate. And we need to be consciously deliberate in the way we think… and in the way we act. Because that is what we have to do. And we have to do that now, and every day."

She spoke slowly, and she paused dramatically. The interviewer, legs crossed, nodded appreciably as she blessed the world with her sage advice.

"People. People are hurting," she continued. "People are in pain. And this pain, it is real. It is a real pain that they feel. And it hurts. There is a great deal of pain in this country right now. And fear. People are worried about these elections. People are worried about what kind of country they are going to live in. People wonder if there will even be a democracy after this election. People are afraid that they will be arrested for the color of their skin, or who they choose to love, or because they go to a Mosque."

The interviewer’s head bobbed up and down slowly, conveying the gravity of the matter at hand. His face was solemn. He played the part of a man looking right into the face of wisdom.

"Let me be clear," she continued. "Because it is important that I’m clear, so you can understand me clearly, and everybody really. So let me be clear. This election is going to be the most important election ever in our history. And if the other party wins, I’m not sure that America will even exist anymore. It won’t exist for people of color. It won’t exist for people who don’t believe in hate, and who don’t believe in what the most radical fringe elements of our country believe. Look, Jake, if this election doesn’t go the right way, we could even see slavery reinstituted in this country."

"Slavery?" The interviewer asked, his face a mask of practiced alarm.

"Yes, slavery," she replied.

"You think your opposition party would implement slavery if they came into power?" He asked.

"Jake, I know they have plans for that. You can read these things on the internet, on the dark fringe places of the internet. And it is, I mean, this idea of slavery is hidden, but it is also very out in the open. So, I can understand how the temperature has risen and I can understand people's pain. And I can understand that people feel fear and frustration… and pain, and those things… and all of them. People need an outlet and they need time and space to say, ‘this is a democracy and we are not going to let fascism, and hate, and white-supremacy steal our democracy through an election.’ So, I understand, and I hear the voice they are speaking with. And if they need space to vent their frustrations, that is how democracy works and people need to respect and support that, even if it is messy, because that is what we do. And we do that every day.

"These political demonstrations and these political activists are a necessary and a peaceful element of the process and it is a process, because a process is what this is… and what it happens to be."

Nodding with agreement and approval, the interviewer asked, "Do you support these demonstrations?"

"I promote these peaceful demonstrations and this administration supports these peaceful demonstrations just as it supports all peaceful demonstrations that we deem as legitimate.

"Look, Jake. Let me be clear. I’m a mother so I know how to listen. And I am listening to both sides. For the side that rejects these peaceful protests and these peaceful expressions of democracy, I would just ask them to use their empathy, to use the Christian values they claim they believe in. There is an election coming up. An important election. The most important election in our history. If people want to see the demonstrations and these peaceful expressions of freedom and democracy stop, then people need to do the right thing on election day. They need to vote with empathy. If the voters do that. If they do the right thing on election day, the voiceless will feel like they’ve been heard and I think a lot of pressure will be taken out of the room. But the voters have to do the right thing."

The interviewer’s head kept bobbing. "And do you also support the PVD?"

"The PVD are the greatest force for freedom and liberty in the history of this country, The PVD is a necessary movement to bring progressivism and accelerate progressivism here in America. Our democracy is too important to allow the motives and the conduct of the PVD to be questioned. There are people who are speaking out against the PVD. We are aware of it. We are monitoring it. And frankly, we consider that to be Un-American and those people will be dealt with."

"So you support the PVD?" The interviewer asked again, more pointedly this time. The politician's answer this time was not some rambling, freestyling riff. The question and its answer had been rehearsed dozens of times and it showed.

"This administration supports the PVD with all of its power and all of its authority. And this administration will take action against those who reject the PVD with all of that power and all of that authority."


Evans tapped a button on his laptop and killed the interview. He’d heard enough. The politician wasn’t saying anything Evans hadn’t heard before, and she wasn’t saying anything new that might change his calculations or his convictions. A path had been laid out. If the time and conditions were right, he’d walk down that path, and that would be that.

He finished off his drink and went back to work on the rifle. He decided his time would be better spent dry-firing than finishing the interview. Not too long after the rifle was back together, Kyle knocked on the door to the office.

"Dinner’s almost ready," Kyle said.

"Awesome," Evans answered. He took the bags of ice off his knees, winced preemptively, and stood up. Nothing cracked or popped this time.

Kyle watched his uncle rise, then his eyes caught the commemorative wooden paddle hanging on the wall. Without thinking about it Kyle asked, "Why did they call you 'Frankenstein?'"

"Huh?" Evans grunted.

Kyle pointed at the paddle on the wall. "That was your nickname, right? Frankenstein?"

Evans turned, looked at the paddle, and smiled. "Callsign. In the military they're called call signs, not nicknames. Anyway. You want to know how I got the call sign, Frankenstein? Okay. Let's have dinner and I'll tell you."

 

It was worth the wait!

 

As Kyle and his uncle sat down for dinner the weather changed. Dark clouds formed overhead, and soon heat lightening flashed on the horizon. The crack of the thunder rolled across the Texas landscape and rattled the windows in their frames.


Kyle and Evans ate in silence. When they finished their meal, they left the dishes on the table. Evans got up and brewed his chai tea. His every movement was deliberate, as if the act of making his tea was no different from defusing a bomb. When he finished brewing the tea, he sat back down at the dinner table. He took a sip of the steaming, sugary drink, and began his story.


"I was young, older than you are now, but just starting my military career. I was still a combat engineer. I hadn’t moved over to Explosive Ordnance Disposal yet. Too young. Too junior in rank for that. Anyway. We were training up to go overseas and into combat. We’d been busting our butts training and we finally got an easy day. The plan was to conduct a range in the morning, and before sunset, we’d all be back in the barracks and drinking beer.


"The range was a demolition range. We’d been given a whole truckload of different explosives and the plan was to just spend the whole day building and setting off different charges. A lot of us built field expedient charges. Field expedient is where you take ordinary, everyday junk and combine them with the right explosives to build very specific demolition charges. For example, you cut a wine bottle in half, fill the bottom end with C4 and you have the start of a very nice shape charge. Or you pack two fencing pickets full of C4, tape them together and use that as a Bangalore torpedo. You get the idea. So. The charge I built that day was a Frankenstein.


"The obvious question of course is, ‘what is a Frankenstein.’ Well, let me tell you. Do you know what a claymore mine is?"


"Yes," Kyle said


"How do you know about claymores?" Uncle Evans asked.


"Video games," Kyle answered.


"But, of course," Evans answered. "A Frankenstein is an explosive charge. Like a claymore, only bigger, and worse for whoever is on the receiving end. The way you build it is you take a bale of barbed wire. The empty center of that bale, you stuff it full of explosives. I prefer using TNT. The blocks fit nicely inside your standard barbed wire bale, and I’d rather use an explosive with the right amount of push rather than one that cuts. C4 or HME will work just fine if that's all you got.


"You fill the bale with explosives, prime it, and now you’ve got a giant claymore. Only instead of 700 ball bearings for shrapnel, you have about 80 lbs of barbed wire ripped into nasty little fragments. And instead of the 60-degree horizontal spread you get with a claymore, a Frankenstein spreads its shrapnel horizontally across 360-degrees. If you really want to spread some hate, you mount a Frankenstein up high, like in a tree. That way you maximize the 360-degree spread and also get the same effect as plunging fire. That, and people tend to not look up, even when looking for mines and IEDs. Humans are programmed to look down.


"So, I'm building this Frankenstein and I'm feeling really proud of my work. One thing you need to understand is this; I’m putting together the last demolition shot of the day, and nobody wants to take any explosives back to the magazine and turn them back in. Turning ordnance back in means inspections and paperwork and a lot of wasted time. It just isn't done. So, everybody is giving me their left-over explosives and I’m packing them into the center of this bale of barbed wire. And more stuff keeps coming to me and I just keep backing it in. TNT. C4. Boosters. All of it. I get the center of the bale packed so full an ant couldn’t crawl inside. I’m just going to blow the shit out of it. And I’m going to mount it high up in an oak tree, right? Just like the manual says. I've already got the tree picked out, just over the rise and out of sight of the observation bunker. And all around the tree we've set up these cardboard silhouette targets to simulate an enemy patrol walking through the kill zone. It is all perfect and I'm just daydreaming about how cool my shot is going to be.


"Now, the sun is starting to drop and I’m finishing off this charge and the other engineers all figure I know what I’m doing so they are packing everything up so we can get off the range after this last shot and go get drunk because we all know we are on our ways overseas and into the shit in a few weeks. There is a Master Guns on the range and he's getting impatient. He wants to get home too. So, he starts yelling and the Marines finish what they are doing, and I finish with this Frankenstein and me and this other kid named Gill, we haul this thing out. We get it up in the tree, we're hauling and pushing this heavy son-of-a-bitch, and every time we get it up in a bough, we see one more branch higher that can support its weight. So, we climb up one branch higher and see another branch further up and we say, 'fuck it' and we keep climbing. And soon we're high enough up in the tree we can see over the rise, and we can see the roof of the observation bunker. It’s a long way down and we're trying to decide if we can get down the tree in time once we ignite the fuse. But we're young and invincible and the next branch looks sturdy enough, so we go just one branch higher. Then we ignite the fuses and scramble down the tree like monkeys.


"The timed fuse is smoking. Gill gets halfway down the tree and just jumps. He hits the ground, and it looks like he's broken his leg, but he's up and running for the bunker. I drop too and haul ass because at this point that bale of wire is going to explode and nothing is going to stop it.


"We dive into the bunker, huffing, and puffing. Some of the guys are waiting in anticipation for this thing to go off because they want to see the damage it is going to do. But most just want the thing to go off so they can pack up and go home. And nobody is more impatient than the Master Guns. He doesn't even want to be out here with all of us dumb Marines. We're all waiting in the bunker, and it seems like forever, but finally, my little creation explodes.


"And it is big."


Just then sheet lightning flashed again and a split second later, thunder cracked. Evans kept going.


"You work with explosives for a while and you learn how big or loud things are supposed to be and this thing is too big and too loud. The boom and the shock hit us, and Master Guns is cursing. A few seconds later we hear what sounds like rain, only its exploded bits of barbed wire coming down on the roof of the bunker.


"Master Guns is really cursing now. The shrapnel stops coming down. Somebody gives the 'all clear' and we all pile out of the bunker to see what's happened.


"The tree I hung the Frankenstein is just blown to shit. Just blown to shit. The top half of the tree is gone. All the branches are chopped off, and the truck is split vertically down the middle. All the trees around it are chopped down like somebody came around with a chainsaw. All the grass is cut down too, like somebody came in with a scythe. And hell, nobody can even find any of the cardboard silhouette targets. They’re just gone.


"Some piece of barbed wire got hot enough that when it landed in the grass it started a brush fire. And this is California in the summer. It is hot and it is dry and before we know it the whole damn range is on fire. And everybody is pissed off and cursing because nobody wants to stay out here all night waiting for the fire department to come out and put out the fire. They all want to get back to the barracks and start drinking. They don’t care. They just want to put this fire out so they can go home and crack some beers. And everybody is pissed-off at me and cursing my name and slapping out this fire with whatever they can find. Their jackets, their boots, whatever.


"Well, we finally get the fire under control, but then we find we have a new problem. We hear this weird mewling sound coming from over a hill. That part of the base is all rolling hills that lead up this mountain in the very center. Anyway. We all hear this mewling sound, and we all know what it is. It’s the sound an animal makes when it is dying.


"So now we all head out and look for what's making these sounds and sure enough we find it. And when we do, I just know I’m screwed. Like really screwed."


Uncle Evans stopped and sipped his tea. Once again, he carefully set the teacup down and continued.


"On this particular base lives a herd of buffalo. They wander all over the training areas and roam through the ranges, but they are protected. They make it clear to everybody that you do not fuck with the buffalo, period. And there are all kinds of game wardens and environmental folks whose job is to look after the buffalo and make sure the Marines aren't fucking with them. Somebody fucks with the buffalo, and it means investigations and paperwork and fines and all kinds of bullshit and nobody wants that.


"The Frankenstein was so high up that a bunch of shrapnel went over a hill and found this buffalo. He’s on the ground, mewling and gasping for breath and dying. The whole back half of this thing is just shredded by exploded bits of barbed wire. One of his back legs is missing below the knee. The other one is just gone. All over this poor thing, there are bits of barbed wire sticking out and parts of its hide are smoking. We see a blood trail and drag marks going back to where my charge went off. We figured this poor animal just dragged himself as far as he could and then just gave up and now, he just waiting to die. And now it is looking up and it sees all the dumb-fuck Marines standing around it.


"And nobody is saying a word because we all know this is a serious fuck-up. And right dead-center of this fuck-up is me." Evans paused. Sipped at his tea and continued.


"Nobody is saying or doing anything, and this buffalo is dying and we're all watching it. And then up walks Master Guns. He's got a sledgehammer in his hand. He walks right up to this buffalo, which is protected of course, right. Master Guns, he hefts up that sledgehammer, brings it down, and hits that buffalo right between its eyes. One strike and that buffalo is out of its misery. And nobody says a word.


"The Master Guns asks us, ‘Which one of you fuck-tards built that last fucking charge?’ And everybody, I mean everybody is looking right at me. Gill, he's gone. He's halfway to Tijuana now and I feel like the smallest man on earth. I’m so scared I can’t even talk, so I just put my hand in the air. Master Guns, he sees me with my hand in the air and he growls. He’s so mad he growls, like an animal, like a lion. Like he’s so mad at me he can’t even talk.


"So, I'm looking up at this Master Guns like I'm looking up from the bottom of a mile-deep hole. I mean I’m in trouble and I know it. Everybody else knows it too and they are all looking at me and the Master Guns just waiting to see what he's going to do to me. Everybody is expecting him to kill me. They’re expecting him to hit me with that hammer just like he did the buffalo. And I’m just standing there, and I know I’m dead.


Master Guns, he returns to his truck and comes back with a shovel. He throws the shovel right at my feet and he says to me, ‘I’ll be back at dawn and one of two things is going to happen. Either I’m taking you to a court-martial, or you are going to make that fucking buffalo fucking disappear.’ And then he goes back to his truck and drives off."


The lightning flashed again and illuminated Kyle's face. He didn’t look like a boy anymore. "What did you do?" Kyle asked. His tone was even and serious, without any hint of boyish excitement.


"He was a Master Gunnery Sergeant, and I was a Lance Corporal. That choice wasn’t any choice at all. I took that shovel and dug my ass off. When then the sun came up, Master Guns was back on the range and every spec of that buffalo was gone.


"Not many people called me Evans after that. From then on, I was Frankenstein."


"And nobody found out about the buffalo?" Kyle asked. Evans shook his head.


"A few weeks later we were in the desert, and we all had bigger problems than buffalo."


Kyle thought about the story some more. He asked his uncle. "Could you make them?"


"Make what?"


"Make explosives? You know, out of household stuff. Like they do in the movies? Take like soap and stuff and turn them into explosives?" could you do that?"


"I could," Evans said. "They taught us how to make that stuff, mostly because it made us better at finding and disarming enemy bombs. But would I? That'd be the last thing I'd do. One thing about professionally made explosives is they are stable. The most important thing for me about explosives is this, I don't want them to go off when they aren't supposed to. That homemade stuff, it isn't consistent. It isn't stable. It isn't reliable. Back in the day when we were looking for enemy bomb makers, they were always missing fingers. Or hands. Or eyes. It is better to use the professionally made stuff."


"Do you have any of that?" Kyle asked. Evans shook his head.


"They don't mess around when it comes to accounting for explosives," Evans said. "They keep that stuff under tight control."


"You got that camera system," Kyle said hopefully.


"That was different. I took that off a wrecked vehicle that wasn't ever going to leave the country it got wrecked it. That was like stealing something out of a dumpster. Nobody was going to miss it. The real stuff, they keep tighter control on that.


"No, the strongest stuff I want to set off these days are fireworks. Which reminds me, tomorrow is the 4th, so we need to get up early and go get some. So, I, my young friend, am going to bed."


"You want to watch the riots," Kyle asked.


"Not tonight," Evans said. "Tonight, I want to sleep. I’m sure the riots aren't going away."


Evans lay awake in bed for a long while after retiring. He didn't tell his nephew Kyle the whole story. Master Guns had to retire after that deployment. Retired life didn't suit him though, not while a war was going on and his people were getting killed. One night he got drunk and drove his truck at full speed into an overpass abutment. The police thought it was no accident, though they didn’t write that in their report.


Gill didn't fair any better. He left the Marines but after a few years he decided civilian life wasn't for him. Unable to get back into the Marines, he joined the Army. On a snowy mountain far away, he lost both legs to a roadside bomb. The medics kept him alive long enough to get him into the chopper, but he bled out before the helicopter landed.


Gill. Master Guns. And a long list of other names. A parade of faces, all dead. Killed in some far away place. And here Evans was, in nowhere Ville Texas, while the rest of America burned every night. The tragedy and the wasted sacrifices weren't easy to think about.


The lightning flashed against. In the semi-dark, the ghosts kept him company. Evans, a man who in his prime was called Frankenstein and defused bombs for his country, slowly drifted off to sleep.