Chapter 1 “New World Order”
“Welcome to Arizona” said the dusty sign hanging on it’s arch with a sun logo designed in the old day’s swinging back and forth. But no one really noticed it anymore in this land of one big state. It used to be that illegal aliens were the only one who hid under the wheel wells when crossing borders but now it is the preferred method of the resistance. The military has sophisticated ways to scan cars so even our hiding places are usually futile; But we try to muffle their sensors with metal magnets and other devices to deflect the radiation rays. Now our only hope is the native American trackers who can cross soundlessly through the desert-“Shadow wolves” passing messages. Ironically they used to track illegal aliens as they attempted to pass through borders. But these days, we are the illegals trying to travel through our own country. It started after the military finally cracked down on borders but it was too late by then… Ranches has been overrun, cattle dead from ingesting the plastic bags and other garbage left behind by the border runners. The government allowed them to run wild in a deliberate attempt to court favor with foreign governments and the new arrivals which they quickly christened “Democrats” and “naturalized citizens” shifted the vote to a leftist government in the blink of an eye. After they had enough to declare victory in the elections they gradually seized control centralizing the schools,the banks, health care, businesses until little vestige of a republic still stood ground. Small bands of people began to organize and hold vigils around landmarks like the Statue of Liberty and the Hoover Dam Bridge over the Grand Canyon. They blocked roads to try and grab headlines. They posted Internet blogs. But then the government seized control of the Internet and blocked all communication with other bands of disconcerted American citizens. The government now owned everything and our only hope for freedom is the decentralization tactics to create unrest among our comrades who only care if their check arrives on time. If we can disrupt their checks we can start the murmur of unrest we need to be our distraction. Our heros are the few remaining blood Indians who can send messages in coded language and pass noiselessly though the desert. I perched soundlessly at the checkpoint waiting to see if the car made it through. I wore my cap low over my ears to hide the shock of thick platinum hair which created suspicion among the police officers. Normally I wore one of the many wigs which I am fortunate to have saved from my days as an celebrity impersonator and actress in the 90s I never thought I’d use them again—It was just nostalgia which prevented me from sending them off to the Goodwill store in the late 2000’s It was almost ten years later when the freedom force decided to wage war against the new world order which robbed us of our basic freedoms after the illegal population gave them the majority vote and they felt safe to nationalize the country and then combine all countries into one huge centralized government. Europe had already started the process so it was easy to persuade the other continents to follow. In fact, most nations collapsing under the weight of debt and the fumes of factories making products no one could afford or even wanted to buy– were happy to oblige. Jacob fiddled aimlessly impatient as I put on the Cher wig. “No, no that one is ridiculously long—he waved at three feet of black weave which extended down my back. ” How about Reba McIntyre I suggested? ” “No, no, your own hair is great. Let’s go.” We could have been going on a date from the sound of our conversation. We were always aware of our conversation in case the house had been bugged by a covert visitor. But we weren’t on a frivolous journey of fun. Those days were gone. We were preparing to pick up a visitor from the other side with crucial information on how the resistance was going in the other half of the country. Jacob kissed me on the cheek for luck and I held his strong hand in mine. I liked his hand it was calloused from years of hard physical labor and I stroked his beautifully muscled arm. I drew my strength from watching the firm confident arch of his arm. It was if nothing could go wrong in the company of his confident body. Jacob was a man who acted purely on instinct honed by hundreds of generations scouting the land of his ancestors. And now he tucked his long black ponytail into a cap to blend in better with the general population and off we went for another day at the office. Jacob was a half breed- American Indian and French Canadian. He had drifted from place to place his whole life so he knew the back roads in his sleep. He wandered the desert through his childhood and knew every crevice of the land. He had the added advantage of a French Canadian mother who was a talented astrologer and scientist. His father had been a shaman. Yes, I know shamans are not supposed or have sex but even they slip up from time to time. And this fortunate seduction produced a wonderful man. Most likely, the shaman a voyeur into the future knew that this child needed to be conceived in order to fulfill a certain destiny. So Jacob spent time with his father learning the old ways and tapping into his psychic power while his mother continued her work as a professor at McGill university in Canada. Jacob would join her– on and off–from about the age of six. More off than on after the age of 16 when he began to wander the nation working as a picker of fruit with migrant workers and immigrants. As a tracker,Jacob would normally drive the car to a trail and then hike towards the border meeting the messengers at rest stops along the highway. We watched breathlessly as the police questioned the driver of the old Cadillac and scanned it with the wand. An expression exchanged between the officers told us trouble was going down. They motioned for the car TO stop and the driver opened the car door as if to comply. Jacob raised his rifle and fired a shot into the distance which distracted the officers turning their heads in the opposite direction giving the driver a moment to act. The car door closed and the engine gunned as the car moved through the border. Before the officer could pull out his weapon, or signal to lower the guard rail —they were gone. We chose this border check point as this was one of the last holdouts from modern technology. Few passed through from Needles to Laughlin now that the Mohave river had run dry. The border checkpoint kept the lanes free and put up orange cones as if that was going to stop people from rushing it while they roused themselves to check the car or truck. This was a sleepy town with the occasional truck and it operated with a skeleton crew. There was talk of closing the courthouse and relocating the residents to another zone. But the oldest residents resisted the change and the government conceded that it was too dangerous to allow the highway to rot in case of an insurgence, this was a active escape route for resistors and nationalists who would certainly take over the town. Even the local ” meth heads” and drug dealers would be useful to cook up dangerous concoctions which could set up mini explosion to keep the army at bay. We also felt that the officers were most likely on our side, not ardent internationalists paid to promote the new world programs. These were good old guys who grew up here and secretly sympathized with us. They missed their state and the pledge of allegiance to a national flag. They probably still secretly partied on the 4th of July even though it was a forbidden holiday. Patriotic days were a bittersweet time for those of us who remembered how it used to be in the United States of America. And we put on old records collecting dust in the basement playing Kate Smith and the national anthem. All of that was gone replaced by a new song to honor the world union and people were strongly encouraged to wear patches which identified their zone of residence to keep everything nice and orderly. Of course, none of that was really necessary now that people were fitted with microchips to track who they were and where they came from. This was more of a psychological border. You can order military law but you can’t always change the hearts and minds of the citizens to agree with it. We tried not to threaten or hurt the officers we only wanted the message bearers to get away. Hopefully, the officers would just shake their head and go back to their post with a little bit of luck. But unfortunately a military officer just happened to be there so that was not to be. He sounded the alarm and we waited for the full wrath of the helicopter scout crew to try and weed us out from the landscape of desert stragglers and travelers at the rest stop. I looked at Jacob trying not to panic, he hid behind the Joshua tree and motioned for me to go alone back to the picnic table while he sank into the desert landscape blending into the rocky landscape. I sat at the table digging a stick into the surface. I scribbled a message ” Welcome to Arizona ” This would be a sign for the car passengers to find me if they made if far enough into the rest area to scatter and hit the road I waited a moment for the car to enter the rest stop and a young man rolled out from the back wheel cover compartment. I put my head down as if I was a street person catching a nap. Out of the corner of my eye I glanced behind me and then back in his direction– watching the figure move on all fours toward me. He was very young, very fragile no more than 85 pounds. But his face wore a resolute expression as he raced toward the table under the cover of the cloud of dust surrounding the car as it rolled around in a large circle giving him cover to make his getaway. The car reversed at high speed and sped away from us and back onto 40. I imagine from there they would get lost on the ruins of route 66 where officers didn’t bother to look anymore as the road scattered into pieces and nothingness. The passenger waved the driver to go and the car lurched forward as the young man had rolled half walked over to my side. Obviously my disguise did not fool him. He saw my green eyes and knew I was his contact. Welcome to Arizona I murmured holding out my hand and weaving rhythmically on the bench. He passed me the message rolled into an empty dark beer bottle and smiled a wan and weary smirk which belied his tender age. This was a boy born into the cause. None of our children have childhoods anymore. We live in an age, not like the industrial revolution, where boys are sent to perform the jobs of men. This small red haired boy who ironically could have filled the role of Huckleberry Flynn as visualized by central casting, walked conchalantly with a cocky swagger past me onto the rest room just as the helicopter buzzed into range. I heard the pilot mumbling his report to headquarters as he buzzed so close to me I could feel the wind and dust whirl into my face choking my larynx as I pretended to take another swig from the bottle . Fortunately, This fearless manchild was safely inside the rest room as the pilot scanned the scene and saw only my listless figure pretending to drink a non existent drink form the beer bottle and swaying as I sang into the arid desert air:’ Gypsy tramps and thieves. I hear it from the town they called us gypsies tramps and thieves I could hear the pilot in a Southern drawl chuckle into the mike Nothing here but an old hippie drinking her lunch” His accent sounded like it might be Arkansas. I searched my memory for the sound.” Did he say that for my own precaution Or did he really buy this lame disguise Do hippies really retreat to the desert and sing Cher songs? Was I just a non existent person in his mind, harmless waste of the government’s rationed resources. Or could this be a SIGN that he had our backs. I enjoyed being 40, It gave me a cover No one suspected a middle aged woman to be the mastermind of a plot to save the country. And in addition, because of my age I had escaped the scourge of mandatory sensors. Children born after the year 2000 were secretly implanted in the hospital,and anyone seeking medical treatment received one in the clinic. Fortunately, I no longer got traditional treatment after the year 2000. Jacob and I and I our followers practiced the natural arts. Mandatory national healthcare did not bother us one bit. Without jobs, or unemployment checks, or chips– we virtually melted into the hardscrabble landscape, we had fallen off the radar. In addition, Jacob had the additional advantage of no social security number or birth certificate. His father or mother had never bothered to obtain one for him and his life as an wandering migrant worker had not required he register with the government in nay way. In their viewpoint, he was a faceless illegal body moving through space. Unfortunately, I had a life before Jacob and the National resistance movement. I was the widow of a prominent attorney and my social security number, public documents, birth certificate and so forth, was a matter of international record. The outline of my existence was firmly etched into the public consciousness of the supercomputer world and if the international government agency wanted to locate me, they could. But they didn’t care to seek me out. I was just a faceless female soul wandering the desert to “Find Herself”. (That’s what I told the mainstream socialites who asked me what I would do now that my husband was buried and the stepchildren I had adored where whisked back to Brazil with their natural grandmother who despised me. Somehow the courts had seen it fit to award her custody as she was a blood relative even though she didn’t know them well at all, and I was the woman who had raised them after their mother’s untimely death at the age of 35.) So after admiring the red rocked beauty of Sedona and other touristy places, I retreated deep into the desert to explore my heart and soul. I mulled over the evidence of my former husband’s suspicious death and realized he had been murdered to silence him. If I wanted to know the truth I had only to retreat and disappear deeper while building a case against his killers. My ex-husband was a good man who deserved that much from me. What I didn’t expect is that I would eventually fund a movement to restore sanity to the world. And the next day I joined the underground revolution my husband had started unbeknownst to me in our little summer cottage. A perverse game of cat and mouse had begun between the people who saw themselves as patriots and the new world government determined to change the status quo once and for all. And my husband had been the first patriot to fall victim murdered right here at the foot of the Joshua tree outside our home. It was my mission to achieve justice. I felt myself a worthy opponent to our Vice president A Cuban woman appointed after the fall or borders in 2012. Now that Mexico, Cuba, Canada, and South America was part of the American federation the president appointed Marisa Luban as the head of the North America region. It was largely symbolic as the Federation was really ruled by a group of Czars appointed by the current president for life. It was as if someone had dropped happy gas into the air and we embraced the changes. Only a few protested onto the night and their voices were hollow predictions of a dictator ship and permanent martial law. People laughed at them and called them racist. Militias members were at first shunned and then hunted down and jailed. Protestors sang songs about the first rebel a man named Carver whose family was shot in cold blood back in the 80’s, he predicted this day would come when ordinary citizens were jailed for practicing their first amendment rights. The first hints at despotism happened as early as that time but it turned a corner with the use of the Internet when groups who posted patriotic web sites were targeted for IRS audits in order to have an excuse to weed out zealots. Ordinary citizens came under suspicion for the first time in American history. Still people closed their eyes and made excuses to themselves. ” They must have been part of right wing militias with designs against the government. This was the story people tried to believe. To lull themselves into complacency. A popular lullaby was that only bad people are targeted and jailed by the FBI. Good people are left to mind their own business. If I am a good person I will be OK. It is this mantra all good citizens say to themselves before falling asleep. And many many people were asleep right now not willing to face their own fears of globalization. They MUST have something to hide. Americans are not jailed for voicing their opinions and gathering in survivalist groups. That CAN’T be illegal, can it? Well, the surge against militia members was subtle and effective. Web sites were too easy to spot, too easily targeted by the government who made sure the members were scrutinized and put on a watch list. Not terrorists, not crazy zealots, but sane ordinary people who had the temerity to call the current government an over reaching and unjust influence on the people. A corruption on the US constitution. It was the devout Christians and Protestants who suffered the most scrutiny and watched their freedom stripped away as crosses were banned and any kind of religious demonstration was deemed un-American. Separation of church and state became a convenient excuse to quell religious fervor and punish the European populations which first populated the nation formerly called North America. A strange wave of reverse discrimination seized the country led by ardent leftist groups who now dominated the Senate performing perverse laws of self flagellation for our collective history of past wrongs . One Central American comedian joked that next week was “Beat yourself with a strap” day in Congress. Needless to say he was black balled from returning again to the late night comedy show. In June OF 2011, the leading talk show host announced his retirement stating he had no ability to voice jokes for the current atmosphere and he feared for his life from devout pro government extremists. Most other talk shows left the air involuntarily the following fall. “Happy” talk reality shows replaced them. I had long since stop watching television as most stations were charging to watch their programs and I am philosophically opposed to “Pay TV”. April 12, 2012, The day they stripped Arlington cemetery of crosses was the day I cried. My uncle Tim who fought and died valiantly at the age of 23 in the Vietnam war and was buried there. A foolish West Point cadet, a voluntary patriot he was stripped on his final dignity when a oval tablet was placed on his grave saying ” Citizen Tim Byrne 1946- 1969 Vietnam ” Deliberately vague, as if Tim wandered onto a ship and fell off in a foreign country where he met his demise from food poisoning. If the word ” war” was removed from monuments , children of future generations would never comprehend why these plots of largely young people were buried in the middle of Washington DC on such valuable land. A subtle tactic that might have worked if the relatives of dead servicemen did not harbor their own resentment for the patriots who lay there unaware their holy ground has been desecrated by the current president. Groups began to “tag” monuments and public buildings with the word, ” They died for your freedom” in spray paint. The government saw it as a threat and banned all spray paint form being sold in North America. But it was useless. People who hoarded paint had plenty of cans to spare and the uprising continued. Even with around the clock surveillance tagging continued and the first cries of rebellion reached the ears of congress. Anyone harboring spray paint in their homes or vehicles were charged with a felony. People young and old– most surprisingly old— were caught with spray paint in their possession. It became a good way to get back at an ex- lover or neighbor. Turn them in under the spray paint law. Divorce accusations almost always included the accusation, Emotional distress, physical abuse, and possession of illegal weapons including spray paint. Households almost always had a can of paint hanging round somewhere the occupants had forgotten about. It was a great excuse for search warrants: Illegal spray paint. Yes, it would have been funny, were it not the cause of imprisonment and property confiscation. Like the old broken taillight excuse, bored law enforcement officers could use it to search your car and drag the unwitting occupants off to jail in order to meet quotas. It became a way to search for papers of rebellion and secret messages against the current administration. What started as a spray paint search become a life sentence for criminals harboring anti government literature. Urban anti government Terrorists would snap pictures of the offending graffiti for books called rebellion logs. They were circulated through out the world. A weird kind of collector’s items, like Indian artifacts, forbidden and desired at the same time. But possessing one would almost certainly result in prison times as a collaborator. So people hid them in wine cellars like jugs of moonshine during the prohibition. People were hiding alot of things these days including old history textbooks from before the e-book revolution. Old textbooks were a problem for the government. They could not be erased like computer files. They were black and white testimonials to patriotism and history and the constitution from the olden days which many people were fascinated to read and collect in their wine cellars or attics. Textbooks became a currency to barter with for food or currency. Yes, folks I did say Textbooks.” Those old battered things which used to be discarded every four years by the public school system. This became the only living testament to what people once lived and died for: The American traditions. The American Revolution. The branches of government. The laws by which people safeguarded their property rights, privacy,sovereign rights and freedom of religion. But most importantly, the freedom to move around the country. Or perhaps more importantly the way we prevented large groups of people from moving here and subverting our government from the original intentions of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. Textbooks were an instrument to show our offspring how life was before the new world order sabotaged our notion of what it was to be a citizen of a great nation. Now we were citizens of one big dissolute world with problems spilling onto our shores in every direction. We just wanted to go back to being Arizona, or California, or New York or South Dakota when life was small and confined to our little towns and neighborhood. ” Welcome To Arizona” I scrubbed it clean and prepared to take the little red haired boy home to the underground nation.