Cody's First Hit
[The following is an excerpt from H. A. Covington's Northwest independence novel, A Mighty Fortress. A young Northwest Volunteer, Cody Brock, is riding on his first NVA assassination through the streets of Seattle with a couple of more experienced older Volunteers.]
The city of Seattle might be hot during the day in the summertime, but global warming or not, it still wasn’t anywhere near as bad as most of the rest of the country. At least in Seattle it cooled off at night.
Barrow, Dortmunder, and Morehouse were still conferring at the house in Ballard over an hour later, as the two NVA cars from A Company casually rolled down Broadway and through the labyrinth of back streets on Capitol Hill, wending in and out among the stately Victorian mansions that had once been home to lumber barons and businessmen in the days of Teddy Roosevelt.
Bobby Bells was driving the Cadillac. They kept carefully within the speed limit and made all their turn signals. They passed the bumpy and depressed stretch of pavement where the airplane had crashed back in the spring. The car windows were rolled down, and the newly dark air coming through them was now cool, mildly damp from a light rain about an hour before. The streetlights and the windows of the stores and restaurants and bars lit the night with pale glow, a slight mist hanging in a nimbus around each light, and the sound of the tires on the street was wet.
Well-known local landmarks slid by in the lambent light. The Sorrento Hotel, Pilgrim Church, Seattle Central Community College, museums and coffeehouses, hole-in-the-wall shops that still managed to hang on by doing a reduced business with the students and remaining locals. They cruised past the hastily-renamed Diversity Park on 15th Avenue. The fine stand of greenery on the hillside in the midst of the urban landscape had originally been named Volunteer Park by the designers in Seattle’s early years, but on the outbreak of the NVA campaign the chagrined city council had quickly changed the name to celebrate a diversity that no longer existed, since the Volunteers of latter days had decimated the neighborhood’s alternative population, as the motley crew of colorful inhabitants been called. Within the park stood the skeletal remains of the Seattle Asian Art Museum, a ghastly 1933 art-deco structure which had been bombed out by the NVA during the first year of the war and never rebuilt.
Just north of the park the two vehicles cruised by Lakeview Cemetery, then turned right and slid around the Arboretum. “We should be hearing from Nightshade any time now,” said Bobby Bells, pressing the cell phone in his pocket. “I know I’m goin’ in circles, but I don’t want to get too far from the Strawberry.” The men in the car eyed the almost empty streets. “Gee, I don’t see no faggots out here walking hand in hand no more,” chuckled Bells reminiscently.
“Did those guys really do that kind of thing?” asked Cody in some disbelief. Farmer Brown looked back at him indulgently.
“This young feller ain’t never seen faggots in public, Lieutenant,” he laughed. “Never saw this neighborhood back in its heyday, I guess.”
“I grew up in Centralia, until my dad…until It Takes A Village got me and sent me to those Jews in Frisco,” said Cody.
“Yeah, well, there was a time when this whole part of town reeked of Vaseline,” said Brown.
“How old are you now, Cody?”
“Eighteen years old today, in fact,” replied Cody.
“Yeah?” said Brown. “Well, happy birthday, young man. As the commandant of Auschwitz said to the Führer, if I’d known in time I would have baked a kike. So you would have been about thirteen when the war started?”
“Yeah. I got the privilege of seeing 10/22 from the Jewish viewpoint, when I was with the Sapirsteins,” said Cody with a scowl.
“That must have been a real trip!” said Bells.
“You haven’t seen hysteria until you see a whole shul full of hebes who are suddenly afraid again,” said Cody with a bitter laugh. “And you the only goy in the place.”
“You lived in San Francisco, and yet you really never seen two men cuddling and snogging in public, joined at the beard? Or two dykes tongue-slurping each other in a Starbucks?” asked Farmer Brown, getting back onto the original subject. Thinking about the Sapirsteins was a distraction the boy could do without at this particular crucial moment in his life and career. Cody had never actually declined to speak of his foster family, but Brown knew that the very thought of that time in his life made the kid physically ill, made him shake and mutter. Something very bad had happened, that Brown and Bells could see, but everyone in the NVA had their own personal horror story of life under political correctness, and it was understood that one never asked for anything that wasn’t volunteered.
“Yeewwww,” said Cody in disgust. “Actually, I always say San Francisco because that’s where Sapirstein had his law practice and that was kind of the center of things for the family, but we actually lived in Silicon Valley, in San José. The buggery was there, but it was all very hi-tech and discreet. All the really screaming queens lived across the Bay in the Castro. I never went up there.”
“Well, they used to be all over this neighborhood like fleas on a dog,” said Brown. “No more, though. I guess us domestic terrorists must be doing our jobs. Squad car at two o’clock, Bob.”
“I see him,” said Bells, quietly signaling and then changing lanes, the Jeep behind them following, as they smoothly slid away from the police car. If the cops noticed the two vehicles, they did nothing.
The Seattle PD, like all Northwest departments, had learned that curiosity could kill the cat. Although there was no informal live and let live arrangement as there was between the NVA and local law enforcement in some parts of the Homeland, Seattle police were known to avoid getting entangled in NVA-related events as much as they could, leaving the task of fighting against the revolution to FATPO and assorted Federal agencies, whose job it was and who were presumably well paid for it. By this time, after five years of urban guerrilla warfare, any hostile run-ins between the Volunteers and the SPD were usually the result of unfortunate accident rather than deliberate on either side’s part.
Cody went on. “I mean, yeah, sure, I know what homosexuality is. God, who can not know, with sex education classes starting in kindergarten and getting homo and lesbian stuff shoved at us from every angle on TV and everywhere else? But I can’t imagine two men or two women actually doing that crap. Especially in public. Why would anybody want to? I mean, what the hell for?” Cody’s knowledge of sexual perversion was in fact more extensive than he let on, thanks to his older stepsisters Karen and Leah Sapirstein, but that was locked away, and there it would stay.
“Cody, I long ago stopped trying to figure out why this society does the things it does,” said Farmer Brown. “I used to figure America had just gone crazy, that we’d all eaten bad bread with ergotine fungus in it, like sometimes happens in your rye house if you let the grain get damp.
"But things have reached the point where even that doesn’t explain it any more. Whole books have been written about what has happened to this country, and when, and why, but I don’t think we’ll ever fully know or understand. There’s a definite sickness out there, a kind of poisonous mushroom that’s been growing in all the dark places of people’s souls. Yeah, the Jews are largely responsible, but the Jews never got away with anything we didn’t let ‘em get away with. Why didn’t we fight up until now? God knows.”
“Little Rock,” said Bells. “Little Rock, 1958. When Eisenhower sent in the army to integrate the schools and force niglets in with the white kids. That’s when the trouble really started. They should have never let them get away with that, the NAACP and their smart Jew lawyers. They was just askin’ for trouble, lettin’ them get away with that.
"What kind of man lets his own child be forced in with niggers? I never understood what the hell those white parents were thinking. The people of the South should have risen up again and re-formed the Confederate States of America and seceded again, and the rest of the country should have supported the South. And I think back then they would have won, too, if the white man had just shown a little balls. They should have started shooting back then, in 1958. Maybe if they’d shot those NAACP niggers and some of those smart Jewish lawyers, the government would have understood the word no. Nothing says no like a bullet in the head. But they didn’t.”
“If they’d done the shooting back then, we wouldn’t have to be doing it now,” agreed Farmer Brown glumly. “We could have kept all of America, and we could all have had some kind of decent life if our grandfathers had done their duty. Instead they sloughed it off onto us.”
“That’s why you shouldn’t worry about tonight or anything like this you do from now on, Cody,” Bells told him. “You got nothing to feel bad about. What we’re doing is something that’s long overdue. This is like a historical process here. Too much peace and prosperity ain’t natural, anyway. People never had so much peace and prosperity before like we’ve had in America, and they don’t know what to do with it, so they abuse it. It’s like a guy who sits around in front of the TV all the time and never gets no exercise. He gets all flabby, like me. And if you don’t exercise your mind or your heart, if you’re not forced to show strength and courage, then all those qualities get fat and flabby and useless as well, and you get stupid in the head.
"Nations are like that, too. They get fat and lazy and full of dumb-asses, because there ain’t no war nor natural selection to weed out the bad blood. There ain’t no penalty attached to being stupid and lazy. In easy times, the dumb-asses don’t get forced to wise up or die like it should happen. They gotta get a bat upside the head to wake up their ideas. There ain’t nothing wrong with the American people that a good working over with a baseball bat won’t fix.”
“You always were a cockeyed optimist, Bob,” chuckled Brown.
“But then there’s people like this rat bastard Krajewski we’re gonna grease tonight, and his Jew buddy the dope dealer. Some people do all the drugs and race-mixing and liberalism and preversions deliberately, because they’re not just dumb-asses, they’re really sick fucks and bad people who like to roll around in their own vomit. Bad things don’t just happen like some kind of natural disaster. Bad things are caused by bad people. Something’s broken inside them, and they ain’t never gonna act right, so fuck ‘em.
"Somewhere along the line we got this ridiculous idea that bad people have some kind of right to keep on doing their preversions and fucking things up for everybody else and making kids turn out bad and fucked-up like they are. Like hell they do. Bad people don’t need to be persuaded not to be bad, they need to be hit in the head. That’s what we’re finally doing. I just hope to God we didn’t begin too late.”
“Sometimes I hear these yuppie Barbie dolls and talking heads on TV whining and crying about how the ones we take out are human beings,” added Farmer Brown with a growl. “Yeah, they are. So? All that means is that they deserve it. Human beings are the only creatures on the face of the earth who are capable of deliberate, malicious evil. Even a shark that tears off a swimmer’s leg or a rattlesnake that bites does it because it’s his instinct, because it’s the way that God made him. Only a human being can deliberately choose to harm another living thing without cause, or lie, or incite others to do harm, or come up with ideas that poison the mind and destroy what others have built, speak words that cause ruin and pain and murder hope.
"Where the hell did we get this idea that we have no right to make moral judgments? Somebody has to judge. Somebody has to stand up say flat out that these bastards who have been ruling the world for the past hundred years are evil, the things they do and say and think and bring into the world are evil. Somebody has got to make these dogs hear the word no. Somebody has to stop them.
"This character Krajewski wants to help a foul tyranny do harm to his own people, his own blood. There is only one answer to that, and Country Joe is going to get that answer tonight. You won’t just be shooting tonight, Cody. You will be speaking, speaking for that part of humanity that is of worth and deserves to be saved. Make sure you make your point.”
“No worries,” said Cody. “Mr. Kaplan will get the message.”