Saturday, August 30, 2014

Letter from Bill White 8-21-2014

[Just got this one today, out of sequence. - HAC]
Hello, Harold:

I'm just dropping you a line before the week runs out. Not much is going on. The dictatorship has filed a trial brief and my defense brief should be filed by now too. The essence of my defense is "I didn't do it." I haven't read the brief, so I can't tell you more than that.

Speaking to [someone knowledgeable about the case], I have been informed that what bothers this person most is that looking at the evidence, the dictator's servants have to know that I'm innocent, and yet they are still proceeding with the prosecution. [Why not? That never stopped them before. Sorry, I'll be quiet. - HAC] They have not argued a single one of the charges in their trial brief. Of the five charges, one charge simply doesn't make grammatical sense. No one can figure out exactly what it is I am supposed to have done, and so that one may be toast just on the strength of the fact that it's gibberish. [See above.- HAC] I would think they would be required to drop two more based on their current theory of the "crime", and they should drop all five, but we'll see.

A little over two weeks from trial, the United States Attorney's office has not yet prepared a witness list. They were ordered to do so by Monday, but they simply ignored that. They also tendered supplemental discovery at the last minute. Overall, they seem very disorganized and unprepared, but in these courts that never seems to matter. 97% conviction rate, n'est-ce pas? So why should they bother?

If you've read the trial brief on PACER you'll know that it's all full of horrible crime and and not of me. There are some big gaps in the brief, like the one sentence that begins "FBI agents have determined" that it was me but offers no proof or evidence or even conjecture as to how I allegedly performed this act of evil. But I guess if the FBI has "determined" that is was me, it must have been me. Right?

I am continuing to plow through Serpent's Blood. Despite having cut it in half once, I could see it making 200,000 words. We'll see. I still have a year's worth of work to do, maybe. But the last few chapters on the 10th and 11th centuries are definitely coming out of the "partial rough" status, and the many errors in those loosely-sketched chapters are being corrected. Tomorrow I'm planning to start with Pope Benedict VIII and Emperor Henry II and go right through Urban II, the peak of Cluny's one-world Zionist influence. Then I have a chapter on Scandinavians and Slavs, one on Normans, and one on Peter Abelard, St. Bernard, and the Grail--and then I'll be ready for more work.

That is the sum of life right now. Yesterday I found out that the jail, by its own guidelines, is supposed to shave my beard for me once a week even if I am deemed to be Jack the Ripper and not to be trusted with a plastic safety razor on my own. Apparently the United States Attorney wants me appearing in court looking like Lon Chaney in the old Wolfman movies. The smell from not bathing no longer bothers me, I'm used to it now, but it is apparently pretty sickening to others when they get near me.

I hope all that is well with you. I shall be enjoying Rose of Honor this evening.


William A. White #201400005514
John Pole Correctional Center
211 Bush Boulevard
Sanford, FL 32773

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Radio Free Northwest - August 28th, 2014

We hear from prospective Northwest migrants Annie and Stefan, Gretchen review Frank Da Silva’s second book, the Trucker expounds on the White work ethic, Professor Henry Harpending talks about “Do Races Exist?” and Andy tells why we can’t be your BFFs.  HAC also gets an occasional word in edgewise as well.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Oregon Relocation Video

This is a yuppie-ish kind of thing, so disregard the “diversity” crap, but it’s got some good shots of this part of the Homeland.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Swiss Banks Hop On Yuan Bandwagon

by Bill White
Switzerland’s National Bank and the People’s Bank of China have reached an agreement to swap their respective currencies, meaning the trade between Swiss banking customers and China will no longer have to be mediated by banking systems depending on the Federal Reserve or European Central Bank (ECB).

This agreement is that latest of nearly two dozen which China has made with central banks, including he ECB, the Bank of England, and the Australian Central Bank, which allow for trade between the nations to use China’s currency, the yuan.

Before the agreements, someone with large amounts of national; currency, like the Swiss franc, would have to route transactions through a bank in a third-party nation, or the People’s Bank of China itself, to obtain Yuan, or to exchange yuan for heir national currency. Now Swiss companies can exchange up to 150 billion yuan (21 billion Swiss francs) through the Swiss banking system.

These agreements by China are part of a strategy to limit American world influence and help present an alternative to the U.S.-led Bretton Woods system. Before 2009, when China began this push, most currency transactions went through the Federal Reserve, with the International Monetary Fund providing loans to support national currencies. Among other things this meant the U.S., could isolate nations by denying them access to the Federal Reserve system to clear international transactions, a tactic recently used against Iran.

Under China’s new regime, countries could continue trade the China, and theoretically with nations in China’s exchange network, even if access to the U.S. banking system was terminated.

This news comes a week after China, Russia, Brazil, India and South Africa announced the launch of a new development bank and currency reserve designed to provide small nations with an alternative to the World Bank/IMF system. China has pledged to Venezuela this week $40 billion in loans and economic aid to shore up the Venezuelan economy, loans Venezuela is repaying with 100,000 barrels of oil worth about $9.3 million on the international market a day.

In the past, the United States has been able to starve small nations like Venezuela or Argentina of dollars, and cause substantial harm to their economies. Such nations have had to import heavily dollar-denominated  contracts and have also, in the case of Argentina, exported dollars as interest payments on their bonds. Their domestic economies’ dollar-dependence has thus driven down exchange rates. A yuan alternative for such nations, back by a steady supply of yuan from China, would transfer nations’ economic dependence from the U.S. to China.

Nations are only financially independent when they print their own currency, giving it value by accepting it for taxes and demanding its acceptance by foreigners. The alternative, which exists in most nations and the U.S., has a federal bank print currency only to fund loans, giving it value by accepting it as interest. The former system is debt free because the nation spends money into existence. The latter creates a never-ending debt cycle because money only comes into existence when it is lent. When too many debts come due, the system collapses—which is why never-ending inflation, which planners hope will expand the money supply faster than payment is demanding, characterizes modern economies.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Letters From Bill White

[Got another batch of letters from Bill, all at once. My thanks to the FBI agent or clerk who finally remembered to drop the letters in the mail after photocopying them and sending the copies off to whoever seems to get such a thrill out of playing with this particular chew toy. - HAC]

August 8th, 2014

Hello, Harold:

There is another small civil rights victory brewing in this screwed-up little jail. I was told today that video from the isolator cells is no longer being broadcast in the control rooms where guards, other inmates, and any general visitor can view prisoners like a peep show, on the toilet, whatever. This seems to be due to my lawsuit. What will happen after they take me away from here, no way to tell. I hope to be headed back to FCI in about 60 days, one way or the other.

Also, today a deputy actually insisted that I seal my legal mail. Apparently my attorneys finally got someone to listen to their complaints about the FBI and God knows who else reading my attorney-client and legal defense material, which is utterly and completely unlawful, but which doesn't matter since the law is no longer enforced.

The court has ordered me to revise my complaint against the sergeant involved in the taser and [redacted] incident. I am working on it. Once I do a little bit of legal research, I will re-file it.

And that's all the news that's fit to print. 


* * *

August 13th, 2014

Hello, Harold:

As I sit here looking like Saddam Hussein after the Americans pulled him from his bunker a decade ago after he was betrayed by the Kurds for money, I read of recent air strikes in the Caliphate in Iraq. 

Essentially, a person paid perhaps $100 per month sits in a pickup truck worth maybe $500 at a checkpoint with an old $100 rifle, and the U.S. blows them up with a $10 million missile. And that's assuming they get the right "terrorist" and don't hit a wedding party or an elementary school. I think it goes without saying that this is not an efficient way to do battle and that the logical consequences of fighting this way over a long period of time is that the United States will be driven into bankruptcy. 

And why should the United States care about the Yezidis, who are in fact blatant and explicit Satan-worshippers? I could care less that they worship the Angra Mainyu (sp? difficult to decipher); after all, half of India worships Shiva and means the same thing when they do it, and the guiding philosophy of the U.S. and Europe isn't much different, either. But when did devil worship become the preferred alternative to Sunni Islam? I have to admit that it's only during the past two years that I have come to understand that Sunni Islam is essentially Communism, but still--devil-worship over Islam?

My manuscript of Serpent's Blood was finally delivered to me yesterday, or at least part of  it. I have decided to add a chapter in Part Four--I'll send you a draft soon--and will be doing some other fiddling.

Re-reading Chapter II, I see that I ripped Christian Identity much more than I intended. I think the shock of finding out that Christian Identity is just "white" Judaism is what did it. Then last night they let me have my Revisionist History newsletters and I discovered that Mormons also share the Christian Identity belief about the Ten Tribes, to the point where I wonder if Mormonism and Freemasonry are not, ultimately, at Christian Identity's root. You will recall that St. Paul warned against heeding "Jewish fables." [Titus 1:14] but somewhere along the line, our Christian Identity brethren got misled.

I have been working on the Reform movement in the 11th century Catholic church, and the spiritual meaning of the 10th century conflict between the Ottos and the Bavarians. Did you know that the name Odelia is a corruption of the Latin Sol Dea or "Sun Goddess?" This says a lot, as the patron saints of the two houses were Maurice and Odelia. Maurice, of course, is the Manichean Christian who rejected YHWH as a serpent-demon (yet still managed to become a Catholic saint) and Odelia is the Nordic Sigynn (sp? original difficult to decipher) who somehow ends up married to Loki-Typhen (YHWH!)

I've also been looking at the issue of papal fiefs. Did you know that everything bad  about the Catholic church happened in the 11th century? Before that, the Pope was supreme in doctrinal matters. Then about 1050, the Pope began to be supreme in temporal matters. All of this was arranged by Cluny which was founded by the crypto-Jew William I of Aquitaine. It's amazing how everything falls together.

Thank you for all that you are doing, Harold. I heard yesterday that you are keeping the world well-informed.


* * *

August 17, 2014

Hello, Harold:

I now have a new trial date, September 8th. The dictatorship fought to continue the trial even longer for "scheduling reasons" but lost. This week they are filing a Trial Brief with Motions In Limine (sp?) which I believe stops the Speedy Trial law clock, but my trial date won't be shifting more than a few days, anyway.

The regime will be filing an unusual monstrosity for a trial brief. The draft I have been allowed to see is 40 pages long, and it's not a very coherent document. You can probably find it at I have had to read it through four times, and read the "facts" section several more times to understand the regime's strange reasoning, The facts, when you take away everything the dictator's servants assert that they cannot prove, which is most of the document as it relates to me--the evidence, even without my counter-argument--tends to show that I did not in fact commit the so-called "crimes". For many of the charges, there simply is no evidence linking anyone to the "offenses" at all. 

Other than that, I've been working on Serpent's Blood. My light bulb this weekend was that Christian Identity derives from the doctrines of the Aix-la-Chappelle group at Charlemagne's court. Christian Identity is focused on the Israelites taken to Medea in 728 B.C. Its founders took this doctrine from Freemasonry, just as Mormons did. Freemasonry is focused on the alleged sanctity of the English and Scottish bloodlines. The doctrine that the Scots are the Israelites goes back to Robert the Bruce, Before that, Henry II said that the Scottish bloodline of the Athelings was sanctified. 

Some historians then point to King St. Edward the Confessor, but in 929 Otto I says that the Wessex-English bloodline is sacred. the ideas started under King Alfred the Great, and he got it from Charlemagnes's court, where Charlemagne was declared the "David" of a "new Israel."

Interestingly, both in England and in France, this "Israelite" pretension replaced an earlier pretension of their respective peoples having migrated out of Scythia from Troy.--the same assertion found regarding the Nordic peoples in the Eddas.

Nothing else going on. I'm almost finished with The Stars In Their Path. I'll give you my review in a future letter. 

Also, National Socialism has finally gone to print. You have an ad in the back. If you or any of your readers are interested in bulk copies, let me know and I'll arrange a deal. Cover price is $12 + $3 shipping and handling, available from Poisoned Pen Press, P. O. Box 2770, Stafford, VA 28555. 

I'm also told that Olaf published a lengthy selection in the most recent First Freedom. Thank him for me.

Still a flat-out refusal on the razor and shaving cream or the bathing--I guess the U.S. Attorney has decided he wants me in court looking and smelling like a homeless wino. Everything else looks good here. I finally have some legal defense work to do in making sure my defense attorney is up to speed. It looks to me like the U.S. Attorney is leading his witnesses into a meat grinder, but if they want to lose this case, that's probably best for me. 

Thank you for all you do, Harold.


William A. White #201400005514
John Polk Correctional Facility
211 Bush Boulevard
Sanford, FL 32773

Friday, August 22, 2014

Bill White's Coming Trial

Hi, Harold:

I just read the trial proceedings of Bill’s trial on PACER. It doesn’t look very good, to put it mildly, and be very careful of what you write online – not because it will affect the trial, but because the government may decide to try and pin some of it on you. They seem to be under the erroneous misconception that there is there is a Charles Manson cult out there somewhere who apparently get all their instructions off the internet (weird, I know, but that’s the way they see it).


* * *

Yes, I know. I have referred to this before, the fact that the United States Attorney’s office in this case is creating a narrative around Bill White based on the Fox Network drama series The Following.

I have in fact been threatened on several prior occasions during the Roanoke case, albeit obliquely, in an attempt to frighten me into being quiet and thus silencing one of Bill’s few remaining vocal defenders on the internet. They want to bury him alive without muss, fuss, or bother, tamp down the dirt, and shamble away chuckling and muttering to themselves, and they don’t want anyone to hear his screams.

Yes, I know I am in danger, but what can I tell you? We do what we do because it is right.  (If this were an RFN podcast I’d play Jimmy Buffet’s It’s My Job again.)


Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Radio Free Northwest - August 21st, 2014

HAC raps a bit more about aliens and a lot on the St. Louis chimp-out. We hear from a British comrade and Gretchen reviews books on Ruby Ridge by Randy and Sarah Weaver.  Then we get another segment of HAC and Mike Harris on Mike’s July 24th show, HAC cuts loose with another blast at the feebs on Who Guards The Guardians? and he discusses the Three C’s: Courage, Caution, and Common Sense.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

"Please Stop Helping Us"

Tell You About Black Crime
by Jason L. Riley 
(The following is excerpted from “Please Stop Helping Us” by Jason Riley. Copyright ©2014 by Jason Riley. Used by permission of Encounter Books. All rights reserved.)

In the summer of 2013, after neighborhood watchman George Zimmerman, a Hispanic, was acquitted in the shooting death of Trayvon Martin, an unarmed black teenager, the political left wanted to have a discussion about everything except the black crime rates that lead people to view young black males with suspicion. Presi­dent Obama and Attorney General Eric Holder wanted to talk about gun control. The NAACP wanted to talk about racial profiling. Assorted academics and MSNBC talking heads wanted to discuss poverty, “stand-your-ground” laws, unemployment and the supposedly racist criminal justice system. But any candid debate on race and criminality in the United States must begin with the fact that blacks are responsible for an astoundingly disproportionate number of crimes, which has been the case for at least the past half a century.

Crime began rising precipitously in the 1960s after the Supreme Court, under Chief Justice Earl Warren, started tilting the scales in favor of the criminals. Some 63 percent of respondents to a Gallup poll taken in 1968 judged the Warren Court, in place from 1953 to 1969, too lenient on crime; but Warren’s jurisprudence was sup­ported wholeheartedly by the liberal intellectuals of that era, as well as by politicians who wanted to shift blame for criminal behavior away from the criminals. Popular books of the time, like Karl Menninger’s “The Crime of Punishment,” argued that “law and order” was an “inflammatory” term with racial overtones. “What it really means,” said Menninger, “is that we should all go out and find the n–– and beat them up.”

The late William Stuntz, a Harvard law professor, addressed this history in his 2011 book, “The Collapse of American Criminal Justice.” “The lenient turn of the mid-twentieth century was, in part, the product of judges, prosecutors and politicians who saw criminal punishment as too harsh a remedy for ghetto violence,” wrote Mr. Stuntz. “The Supreme Court’s expansion of criminal defendants’ legal rights in the 1960s and after flowed from the Justices’ percep­tion that poor and black defendants were being victimized by a system run by white government officials. Even the rise of harsh drug laws was in large measure the product of reformers’ efforts to limit the awful costs illegal drug markets impose on poor city neighborhoods. Each of these changes flowed, in large measure, from the decisions of men who saw themselves as reformers. But their reforms showed an uncanny ability to take bad situations and make them worse.”

When it comes to arrests for marijuana possession, the ACLU says Gordon County, Georgia, has one of the highest racial disparities in the nation. While surveys show that black and white people use marijuana at...

Crime rates rose by 139 percent during the 1960s, and the murder rate doubled. Cities couldn’t hire cops fast enough. “The number of police per 1,000 people was up twice the rate of the population growth, and yet clearance rates for crimes dropped 31 percent and conviction rates were down 6 percent,” wrote Lucas A. Powe Jr. in “The Warren Court and American Politics,” his history of the Warren Court. “During the last weeks of his [1968] presidential campaign, Nixon had a favorite line in his standard speech. ‘In the past 45 minutes this is what happened in America. There has been one murder, two rapes, forty-five major crimes of violence, countless robberies and auto thefts.’”

As remains the case today, blacks in the past were overrepre­sented among those arrested and imprisoned. In urban areas in 1967, blacks were 17 times more likely than whites to be arrested for robbery. In 1980 blacks comprised about one-eighth of the population but were half of all those arrested for murder, rape and robbery, according to FBI data. And they were between one-fourth and one-third of all those arrested for crimes such as burglary, auto theft and aggravated assault.

Today blacks are about 13 percent of the population and continue to be responsible for an inordinate amount of crime. Between 1976 and 2005 blacks com­mitted more than half of all murders in the United States. The black arrest rate for most offenses — including robbery, aggravated assault and property crimes — is still typically two to three times their representation in the population. Blacks as a group are also overrepresented among persons arrested for so-called white-collar crimes such as counterfeiting, fraud and embezzlement. And blaming this decades-long, well-documented trend on racist cops, prosecutors, judges, sentencing guidelines and drug laws doesn’t cut it as a plausible explanation.

“Even allowing for the existence of discrimination in the criminal justice system, the higher rates of crime among black Americans cannot be denied,” wrote James Q. Wilson and Richard Herrnstein in their classic 1985 study, “Crime and Human Nature.” “Every study of crime using official data shows blacks to be overrepresented among persons arrested, convicted, and imprisoned for street crimes.” This was true decades before the authors put it to paper, and it remains the case decades later.

“The overrepresentation of blacks among arrested persons persists throughout the criminal justice system,” wrote Wilson and Herrnstein. “Though prosecutors and judges may well make discriminatory judgments, such decisions do not account for more than a small fraction of the overrepresentation of blacks in prison.” Yet liberal policy makers and their allies in the press and the academy consistently downplay the empirical data on black crime rates, when they bother to discuss them at all. Stories about the racial makeup of prisons are commonplace; stories about the excessive amount of black criminality are much harder to come by.

“High rates of black violence in the late twentieth century are a matter of historical fact, not bigoted imagination,” wrote Mr. Stuntz. “The trends reached their peak not in the land of Jim Crow but in the more civilized North, and not in the age of segrega­tion but in the decades that saw the rise of civil rights for African Americans — and of African American control of city governments.” The left wants to blame these outcomes on racial animus and “the system,” but blacks have long been part of running that system. Black crime and incarceration rates spiked in the 1970s and ’80s in cities such as Baltimore, Cleveland, Detroit, Chicago, Philadelphia, Los Angeles and Washington under black mayors and black police chiefs. Some of the most violent cities in the United States today are run by blacks.

Black people are not shooting each other at these alarming rates in Chicago and other urban areas because of our gun laws or our drug laws or a criminal justice system that has it in for them. The problem is primarily cultural — self-destructive behaviors and attitudes all too common among the black underclass. The problem is black criminal behavior, which is one manifestation of a black pathology that ultimately stems from the breakdown of the black family. Liberals want to talk about what others should do for blacks instead of what blacks should do for themselves. But if we don’t acknowledge the cultural barriers to black progress, how can we address them? How can you even begin to fix something that almost no one wants to talk about honestly?

Jason Riley is a member of the Wall Street Journal Editorial Board.

Monday, August 18, 2014

Viking Longships On The Mighty Mississip

Our ancestors really got around.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Letter From Bill White 8-4-2014

[Somewhat redacted; I am having to pick and choose and restrain Bill's chattiness when he discusses things which might not be in his best interest to have shouted from the rooftops. - HAC]

August 4th, 2014

Hello, Harold:

I saw the sun today for the first time in 40 days.

I have just learned from reading the newspaper this afternoon more about the case pending against me than anyone has seen fit to tell me so far, which may be one of the reasons the jail tried to ban me from receiving or reading newspapers before I sued them. Apparently there is a related case going to trial, perhaps in September, perhaps in the Florida state system. Details are sketchy. This may explain why I have been targeted as I have been. I have nothing to do with any of it, which as usual simply doesn't seem to matter.

I also found out that the sergeant involved in the taser and homo incident with me has a history of sexually threatening male inmates. Recently, he told another inmate in the isolator that he would [redacted, lest I be once again accused of being "obsessed with faggots", and besides it's too grotty - HAC]  The guy is just sick and out of control. 

[NB: Down through history, totalitarian regimes have habitually recruited and utilized homosexual sadists as custodial guards in their castles, prisons, and concentration camps. The Seminole County Jail appears to be no exception. - HAC]

I may also have a co-plaintiff soon. Right now affidavits are being gathered from John Polk inmates who have been physically or sexually assaulted, or otherwise tortured and abused in the facility. 

Personally I have begun to resemble the Wolfman. No razor or shaving cream yet. I've stopped even asking. I have a crazy uneven beard beneath which my face is still burn-scarred from the time when they were forcing me to use negro Magic Shave Powder. Not all the hair on my face has grown back, but enough has to make me look like Dr. Zeus from Planet of the Apes. I am also still so dirty even after my one brief shower that when they finally let me out today and I sweated in the sun, skin peeled off me like a fried chicken. Gross, huh? 

No word yet on whether I will be allowed to clean myself and shave for court or be given a suit and tie. They may drag me in and out of the courtroom in shackles and chains looking and smelling like this, in order to impress the jury with my innate evil. I mean, anyone who looks and stinks like a wild man must be guilty, right?

Otherwise, I've been working with Thietmar. Amazing stuff. I caught on to the relationship of St. Maurice and Manichaeanism, and there is a definite Apollonian quality  to Henry I the Fowler and Otto I the Great. But Henry's son by Edith, Liudolf, was Pythagorean. His brother, Bruno, was criticized for being a philosopher. His other brother, Daikmar, was sacrificed with a spear in the church of St. Peter's in Erseburg, on the site of the old Irminthul. And Edith's bloodline was seen as "saved" even in the 10th century, 200 years before Henry II of England started to say it was. I can't make up stuff as good as this.

Someone has also located Egbert's Chronicle of 9th Century Italy fame, in Latin. I'm hoping to find it in English. Otherwise, Numer books may be publishing my translation of it next year as they did in Mimir with two works I had to render into English to further the study of Nordic myth. 

I really wish I was back in actual prison where I could just work for six months.

Anyway, that's the roundup, Harold. I hope you are well.


William A. White #201400005514
John Polk Correctional Center
211 Bush Boulevard
Sanford, FL 32773

Friday, August 15, 2014

White Genocide Video

For those of you who haven't seen this: highly recommended.

At the risk of getting him all pissed off at me again, remember: the NF also has its mantra: "If White people had a country of our own, this wouldn't be happening."

Thursday, August 14, 2014

Radio Free Northwest - August 14th, 2014

HAC yells at some people, HAC and Lord Lucan rap about the aliens among us, (no, Harold hasn’t lost his marbles), Andy and Gretchen chime in and then HAC rambles on about Rotary Club vs. Secret Squirrel.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

From Freedom's Sons: "That Toddling Town"

[This is probably the most crucially important chapter I ever wrote in any of my Northwest novels. You folks can Come Home now, voluntarily, while you can still plan an organized, proper move. Or you can Come Home later. Like this. - HAC]

V. That Toddlin’ Town
(Nine months after Longview)

                                    Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin' town!

                                                    Chicago, Chicago, I'll show you around!
                                                                 -Old Frank Sinatra song
Elias Horakova was having a really bad day.

That sweltering July morning he arrived late at his job at the Chicago Tool and Die Company’s last functioning American plant in Calumet Heights, after a train commute that had stretched to three hours due to several mechanical breakdowns, and also due to a dead goat on the tracks from a Santeria ceremony the night before. Needless to say, the air conditioning on both the local rail and the El was broken. It hardly ever worked any more.

When Eli finally got to work, he learned from a memo in his mailbox that the venerable factory was finally closing its doors, and the last jobs were being shipped to the new plant in Guatemala. Eli took his lunch break in the Moose Lodge tavern down the street, quaffed one too many Old Style beers, and when he returned to work, he took a swing at his obnoxious Mexican foreman with a pipe wrench. For this he was informed that he would lose fifty percent of his severance package. The company Human Relations Committee also told him they were notifying the FBI of a possible hatecrime. Then after the endless trip home on the oven-like trains, Eli had arrived at his home in Cicero to find a dead nigger lying in his living room.

The dead man was still bleeding. He wore a filthy tank top, an empty holster on his hip, jeans and boots, and on his coal-black head was glued the remains of a bright multi-colored wool toboggan cap that was soaked in blood and brain matter. Horakova’s 16-year-old son Eddie, a chunky tow-headed youth whose arms and hands were already as big and muscular as his father’s, was sitting on the couch, still holding the old .45-caliber Colt automatic he had used to shoot the huge congoid. A nine-millimeter Glock automatic that Eli had never seen before was lying on the coffee table. “Jesus Christ! Eddie? What the fuck happened?” croaked Elias, his throat suddenly bone-dry.

“It’s that Jamaican badass Rico Tubbs,” Eddie said in a toneless voice. “He was gonna take Millie to the Center. For questioning, he said.” 

“Mother of God!” cried Eli in horror. Everyone in Chicago knew what such questioning in a Neighborhood Watch clubhouse would have entailed for a 13-year-old white girl. “Where’s Millie? Is she all right?” he demanded. 

“She’s in her room,” said Eddie. “I already laid it all out for her, Dad. She was in her room the whole day, on her computer, or listening to music with her headphones on, and she didn’t see or hear nothing. No matter what the cops do or say to her, she didn’t see or hear nothing. She understands. She won’t break, Dad. This is all on me. I won’t let them involve her.” 

“It’s not the cops I’m worried about, it’s Rico’s nigger buddies down at the Neighborhood Watch,” said Eli, sitting down in an armchair and shakily lighting a cigarette. “Tell me what happened, Ed.”

 “It was maybe half an hour ago. Rico came in the door…” 

“Did he break in?” interrupted Eli. 

“No, he used his house key, the one the city made us give to the Watch,” his son told him.

 “Did he have any papers on him about Millie, about the family? Anything from the FBI or the Human Relations Commission?” 

“Nah,” said Eddie. “He just walked in. Millie and me were sitting here watching TV. Rico walks over and grabs Millie by the arm. He says, ‘You be coming wit me, little mama. We got some questions for you down at de Sen-tair,’ you know that crappy Jamaican accent he had. He didn’t even look at me. He didn’t care I was there. I was just a white boy, what was I gonna do? But I knew what I was gonna do, Dad. I didn’t say nothing. I just got up and went into your bedroom and got the gun from your stash, jacked in a round like you showed me that time we went shooting down in the Forest Preserves, and I walked back in here. Millie was kicking and screaming, and Rico was laughing as he dragged her out the door. I shot him once in the chest and put him down. He was lying there gasping like a fish out of water, clawing at his holster for his gun. I leaned over and took the gun. That’s it on the table there. Then I put the muzzle right onto his teeth and I pulled the trigger again. Outfit style, like Stash says they used to do back in the day. I just did what I hadda do, Dad.” 

“I know, son,” said his father, his heart breaking. “Where’s your mother? Does she know?” 

“No. Mom’s still at work. Tommy’s still at day care. Mom is picking him up on her way home.” 

“What about Stash?” 

“He wheeled himself into the room when he heard the yelling and screaming and the shots. He’s out in the garage now. He said he was getting some stuff we’re gonna need.” 

“What stuff?” asked Eddie’s father, still trying to take it all in. 

“Dis stuff,” said Eli’s father Stanislas, a lean and wiry old man in his seventies, as he rolled his wheelchair into the living room. On his lap were several hacksaws and a roll of black garbage bags. “I’m glad you’re home, Eli, because it’s gonna take two of you to get dis buck’s clothes off and get him into de bathtub. Den you gotta cut him up. We put de pieces in dese garbage bags, we weigh de bags down wit bricks or scrap iron, and tonight you and Eddie take de van, and you toss de bags into de lake. Throw each one in at a different place.” 

It was a testament to the realities of life in the United States, and Chicago in particular, that the idea of calling the police was so foolish it never even occurred to Eli to suggest it. His son had raised his hand against a man with a black skin; in Chelsea Clinton’s America, his life was now over. “They’re gonna come looking for him,” said Eli hopelessly, gesturing toward the black carcass on the floor. “There’s what? Three white homes left on Kildare Avenue, and we’re the only family with a girl? If the brothers didn’t know where he was going, they’ll figure it out soon enough.”

 “Dat’s why we have to hurry and get dis cleaned up,” said Stash. “Once we get de cutting done, you guys have to dump de bags and de girls will have to scrub down every inch of dis room. If de real cops get involved, dey might use dose luminol lights for bloodstains, but we’ll tell ‘em you came home drunk and you knocked Lorna around a few nights ago.” 

“I’ve never laid a hand on Lorna!” protested Eli angrily. “I’m not a wife-beater!” Not like you, he thought silently.

“Dey don’t know dat,” said Stash evenly. 

“Did you ever cut up a body before, Grandad?” asked Eddie. 

“I doubt it,” snarled Eli. “Eddie, I thought you’d figured out by now that all those Outfit stories were bullshit. Your grandfather spent forty years working like a dog in the same place I just got laid off from today. If he was mobbed up, we wouldn’t be living in a three-bedroom bungalow in Cicero with a half-million-dollar mortgage, he wouldn’t be sleeping on a roll-out sofa bed in the garage, and you wouldn’t be sharing a room with your brother.” 

“Sorry to hear de plant’s closing down, saw dat comin’ a long time ago, but we got other problems to deal wit now,” said Stanislas. “Eli, you get his head and Eddie, you get his feet. Take him into de bathroom, strip him, and I’ll walk you through it while I watch from the doorway. Eddie, give me de gun.” 

“Why?” asked Eddie. 

“Because if anybody walks in dat front door while we’re doin’ dis besides your mother, I’m gonna kill him, and dat’s no bullshit.” 

Eli’s wife Lorna, a faded blond woman with a work-worn face, arrived home half an hour later with five-year-old Tommy. She saw what her husband and son were doing in the bathroom, and went into hysterics. Eli managed to get her calmed down after another half hour. Then he sent the little boy into Millie’s room, telling a white-faced Millie to play a computer game with him and keep him in there, while Lorna got busy with the Ajax, a scrub brush, and a mop. Then Eli and his son went on with their gruesome task while old Stanislas offered helpful supervisory suggestions that made Eli wonder if his long-held, skeptical estimation of his father’s alleged criminal past might need re-thinking. By nine o’clock that night, the bathtub was piled with doubled black garbage bags, firmly closed with plastic ties, and Lorna had managed to whip up a big pot of macaroni and cheese, which she served as supper along with a plate of buttered slices of cheap white bread. This was how the family always ate anyway, since the Food Stamps program had gone bankrupt years before. Every dime she and her husband earned had to go for the house mortgage and her father-in-law’s twice-weekly kidney dialysis treatments; food was a necessity of life that had to be provided as cheaply as possible. 

There were no recriminations at the dinner table. This was America, these were poor white people who knew the score, and the only concern now was to save Eddie’s life. “I know what I gotta do,” said Eddie soberly. “Mom, Dad, give me some money, as much as you got on you, and I’ll leave town. After we get rid of the bags, Dad, take me up the Tollway as far as Interstate 90, and drop me off at some truck stop. I’ll hitch from there. I can make it to Wyoming in three or four days if I’m lucky, and then I’ll sneak across the border into the Northwest Republic.” 

“But when will you come back?” asked his sister Milada, a thin girl with long blond hair who was on the verge of tears. 

“I can’t ever come back, Millie,” said the boy. “I’m sorry it played out like this, I’m sorry I jammed the family up like this, but what’s done is done.” 

“There has to be some other way!” moaned Lorna. 

“There isn’t,” said Eli harshly. “He’ll be tried as an adult in one of those goddamned new Hate Courts, and he’ll get life in prison, although in his case that won’t be long since we all know what happens to teenaged white boys in Joliet.” 

“What would happen?” asked Millie. 

“I won’t last a week,” explained Eddie brutally. “The first time the niggers try to fuck me in the shower I’ll fight back, and they’ll stab me to death with their shivs.” 

No one questioned what Eddie said. Life for white people in blue-collar Chicago was grim, and even Millie was old enough to know what he was talking about. Little Tommy simply stared. He knew something bad was happening, but he didn’t cry; already he understood by some mental and emotional osmosis from the others that in this world, his family was surrounded by enemies, and he must not show weakness. “We all have to go,” said Eli. “They’ll be coming after all of us now, because of that Parental Responsibility Act, and they’ll give Millie and Tommy to It Takes a Village to be sold. Hell, might as well make a break for it, just on general principles. I ain’t got no job any more, and at my age I ain’t getting another job. I been thinking about it for a while.” 

“Maybe it will be all right,” ventured Lorna. “The angels watched over Millie and Eddie this afternoon, maybe they’ll keep on watching over us.” White people in America dealt with the unbearable strain and tension of life surrounded by a slowly rising sea of mud in many ways. In Lorna’s case, it was through her Catholic faith, and a resolute belief in the existence of angels on earth who would somehow make everything work out in the end. She had a shelf full of books and a rack of video discs, all on the subject of angels. No one else in the family believed in them, and no one was so cruel as to argue with her on the subject. “But we can’t all go,” Lorna went on “What about Stash? He’s supposed to go for dialysis tomorrow. And besides, it’s against the law to move to any of the Northwestern states now. We’ll be arrested at the state line.” 

“That’s why it has to be just me, Mom,” said Eddie. “I broke the law when I shot that ape, but you guys haven’t yet, unless you shelter me. That’s why I gotta leave on my own, so I don’t get you guys into more trouble.” 

“I don’t give a damn about the law of this goddamned country no more,” said Eli. “Two tours in Iraq, and what did this country ever give me in return? I got a piece of shrapnel in my leg that still hurts like hell, but the goddamned VA doctors won’t take it out because it costs too much. There’s no more Medicare or any kind of help for my father. Neither of you kids are learning a damned thing in school, and if your mother and I didn’t stand over you and make you learn on the computer every night, neither of you would even know how to read and write! Now I got no job, because those Jews on the board of directors sent it to some shithole in Guatemala where they’ll train some Indian to push the buttons on the robot that actually does what I used to do. Nothing but niggers and Mexicans everywhere like a plague of goddamned locusts! Now they do this to my family? That nigger was probably getting paid more by the city for swaggering around the neighborhood with his gun and molesting any white woman he met than I was getting paid at the CT & D. He comes into my home and expects to rape my daughter just for shits and giggles, my son defends her, and now he’s gonna get thrown away like a piece of garbage? To hell with the law and to hell with America! I say we all go Northwest!” 

“But what about Stash’s dialysis?” asked Lorna. 

“De answer is simple,” said Stanislas. “You guys go Northwest. You go tonight. You can’t take me, and you know it. I’m stuck in dis chair, I can’t even take a shit by myself, and I gotta get hooked up to dat goddamned machine in de hospital every three or four days. You’re gonna have to run de border, where de TV says dey got army and Marines and special police units setting up barbed wire and minefields because so many white people want out of this latrine. You can’t be lugging me along while you’re cutting through barbed wire and dodging machine gun nests, and you can’t push me across a minefield in dis chair.”   

“And what about our friend in the bathtub?” asked Eli.

 “Before you go, stuff de garbage bags in de crawl space under de house,” said Stash. “When de Neighborhood Watch shows up looking for deir head nigger in charge, I’ll just clam up and tell ‘em I don’t know nuthin’. When Tubbsy starts getting ripe and people notice de smell, sure, dey’ll find him, but I still don’t know nuthin’. I mean, like I killed him and stuffed him under de house? In dis chair? Yeah, dey’ll figure out what happened, but you’ll be long gone.” 

“Then they’ll just kill you,” said Eli. “They’ll beat you to death or drag you out into the street and run over you with their patrol SUVs like they did poor old Frank Metesky back in October when he hung blue, white and green streamers on his porch.”  

“I’ll talk ‘em out of it,” said Stanislas. “I can act like a real dumb and pitiful old bohunk when I want to.” 

“And suppose you managed to do that, what will happen to you then, Stash?” asked Lorna. “Who will take care of you?”  

“I still got some friends down at de precinct,” said the old man. In Chicagoese, he was referring to the Democratic Party precinct house, not the police precinct. “Dere’s still a few old bohunks down there who can get me a check of some kind, and if not, I’ll go into a nursing home.” 

“You’re not going into a nursing home,” said Eli. “Especially not the ones for indigent old white people in this city, where you’ll be starved and beaten by the Filipino and Nigerian orderlies, and then one night one of them will cut your throat for your IV. I’m not leaving you in a place like that while we run away, Stash.” He sighed. “Eddie’s right. He has to try and make it on his own. We’ll dump the bags in the lake, and then I’ll drop him off up where I-90 begins. When the Neighborhood Watch comes looking, Eddie just ran away, and none of us knows anything. If they honestly don’t know what Tubbs was up to for his entertainment this afternoon, maybe we can get them to believe us. Eddie, go get dressed for the road. I got about forty dollars on me, I think.” 

“I’ve got twenty or thirty,” said Lorna, sniffling. 

“I have about a hundred dollars in my piggy bank,” said Millie, her eyes tearing. 

“Aw, Millie, for Christ’s sake, you been saving that since you were eight,” said Eddie with a sad laugh. “I don’t need your money.” 

“You saved me from that nigger,” said Millie, weeping openly now. “I know what he was going to do to me. I ain’t a stupid kid any more. Now you have to go away forever because of me. I can at least give you my pig.”

“Take me out to de garage and let’s give ‘em some time,” said old Stash to his son. Eli and Eddie had built a ramp, and Stanislas could get back to his roll-up-bed sofa in the garage well enough on his own, but Eli wheeled him out anyway. When they got out to Stash’s hootch he’d made for himself, he said, “Eli, dis is bullshit. You can’t break up de family like dis. All of yez gotta make a run for it, get to de Northwest. Leave me. Don’t worry, I’ll be okay. Pack your shit, and take it on de arches. Tonight.” 

“Leaving you behind would break up the family,” said Eli

“You’re right. You can’t run a border full of armed guards and land mines in a wheelchair, and that doesn’t even take into account your bum kidneys and your dialysis. Eddie’s young, he’s smart, and I’ve taught him how to work with his hands, carpentry, electrical, plumbing, not to mention how to keep that piece of crap van running. Hell, he’s handier around the house than I am. He can take care of himself and make a living in Seattle or someplace like that. You can’t. We can’t take you, and I’m not leaving you, so this is the only way. Maybe if all of us white people had stood up to the government like those Jerry Rebs in the Northwest did, things would be different, but we played it safe and stayed on our bellies, and things ain’t different. So that’s the sitch, and we’ll deal with it.” 

“Even if you can somehow talk your way out of it when dose niggers come nosing around, you got no job any more, and from what you said at dinner de goddamned FBI may be coming after you for hatecrime as well,” said Stash. 

“This is our home. Grandpa and grandma came to this country as DPs and spent twelve years working their fingers to the bone, grandpa swinging a pick and shovel and grandma waiting tables and sewing in a Jew sweatshop to buy this house. You grew up here and so did I, and now so have Eddie and Millie. Eddie has to leave now, but you don’t, and the rest of us don’t,” said Eli, desperately trying to convince himself. 

“Bird turd!” snarled Stash. “Why do you think my parents came here after World War Two? Dey was one step ahead of de fucking Communists back in Czechoslovakia, is why. Dey was done dere, and now we’re done here, Eli. Dese things happen every few generations. All of yez need to accept what’s happened and clear out. Leave me. I’ll be okay.”

 “You’re my father. I’m not running away and leaving you behind to face the music,” said Eli stubbornly.

 “You know damned well I was a lousy father, just like I was a lousy wiseguy,” said Stanislas. 

“Well, if you’d been a better wiseguy, maybe we’d be living in a nice suburb now and we wouldn’t be in this shit,” said Eli bitterly. “Okay, let’s say for a moment that I believe you. If you really were with Giancana back in the day, why didn’t you stick with it?” 

“Your mother,” said Stanislas with a sigh. “Just after you was born, I got caught up in one of dose big Crime Commission sweeps dey used to pull every few years, all de politicians and cops downtown standing in front of de TV cameras and telling everybody how dey was gonna shut down de Outfit and clean up Chicago. Yeah, like dat’s ever gonna happen. Half of ‘em were on Accardo or Momo Giancana’s pad even while dey were talkin’ dat crap. I was a little fish, and my charges were all petty bullshit beefs, running a couple of handbooks, receiving, nothin’ I couldn’t beat, and eventually I did.

 “But for de only time in her life, your mother put her foot down. She said you wasn’t gonna grow up never seeing your old man except on visiting day. She didn’t care what I did when I was home, so long as I was home every night, otherwise she was gone and so were you. I knew she meant it, so I went to my precinct captain and I got a union card and a job at CT& D. So instead of seeing me only on visiting day, you got to see me home every night, usually drunk and whaling on your mother or you or your brothers, taking it out on you because I was working a drill press instead of running numbers and hustling and driving a new Caddy every year.” Stash looked up at him. “Eli, I was a rotten son of a bitch. I’m damned if I know why you let me live here after de way I acted all dose years. You don’t owe me nuthin’, rather de reverse. You take your family, and you get in dat van and you head Northwest, before Rico Tubbs’ homeys come knocking on de door, which could happen any minute now if you don’t move your ass."

 “I told you, you’re my father,” said Eli. “It’s not about what kind of man you were, it’s about what kind of man I am. I’m not leaving you behind.” 

He walked heavily back into the house. Lorna and Millie were sitting on the sofa crying and hugging Eddie. In all the stress and turmoil of the day, Eli had forgotten that Stash still had the .45. He was just nerving himself up to tell Eddie and the women that it was time, that Eddie needed to say his goodbyes and they needed to get the van loaded with the macabre black bags and get moving, when they all heard the gunshot. Lorna screamed. “Stay here!” Eli ordered them, and he ran into the garage. 

“Stan the Man” Horakova had performed one last hit, or possibly his first, on himself. Eli would never know. His father’s bloodied head was thrown back in the wheelchair, and the wall and ceiling of the garage was covered in dripping blood and gray matter. The gun lay on the concrete floor beneath the chair. There was still a lot of stuff left in the room from the days when it had been an actual garage, one of them being a can of vermilion spray paint. Old Stash had taken the can and spray-painted one word on the back of the garage door: “GO.”

                                                   * * *

The Horakova family pulled out of the driveway of the house on Kildare Avenue in the first thin light of dawn. They were driving a battered white van that was the last remaining relic from Eli’s attempt, some years before, to start his own part-time electrical contracting business using the umpteenth re-finance on the house mortgage. Then Stash’s kidneys had gone south and most of the capital went into keeping the old man alive.
The business had spluttered along for two years and then been shut down by the federal government for failure to meet OSHA standards, although that was just an excuse. It had long been the policy of the U.S. government to destroy any white entrepreneurial endeavor wherever it raised its head, either through regulation or taxation. The American ruling élite disliked and distrusted self-employed white people. They wanted everybody in the country working for a paycheck that could be cut off, if it ever became necessary to get a handle on someone. The two parties differed only on tactical details, not in their commitment to full economic control of the white population. Republicans wanted that paycheck to come from a large multinational corporation, whereas Democrats preferred that it come from the government. Democracy in America had long since been reduced to a matter of who controlled the patronage. It was Chicago writ large.

Eli carefully packed the van with the things he thought they would need, mostly clothes and the tools he and Eddie would need to earn a living in the new land. The first stop was an automated teller machine at the far end of Kildare Avenue, where Eli drew out $220 of the $227.15 in his and Lorna’s joint account in $20 bills, the family’s entire worldly wealth. With what they had on them, as well as the contents of Millie’s pig, they had almost four hundred dollars, which would not be enough even for gas. But Eli had a large jerry can of gasoline he kept for emergencies, and this qualified. He also packed a siphon hose. “If we run dry we’ll just steal some gas,” he told them. “Preferably from some Jew’s Cadillac.”

They headed northward on Interstate 90. Traffic wasn’t too bad, and they were past Rockford and well into Wisconsin by noon. Eli did the driving. The others took turns beside him in the passenger seat so they could get some air; little Tommy sat on Lorna’s lap, while the others sat in the back as best they could on the heaps of clothing and boxes of stuff they had packed. They watched the green forested landscape along the interstate go by in silence. They were all exhausted, no one had gotten any sleep, and the events of the past 24 catastrophic hours were finally starting to sink in.

Eli’s father, the children’s grandfather, was dead. Their home, the only home Eli himself and the children had ever known, had been torn from them in the blink of an eye because of a nigger’s casual lust for a little white girl. They had known others who had defied the politically correct system, and those others had paid the price. Now it was the Horakovas’ turn. Their names had been drawn out of the Mad Hatter’s topper in the insane lottery of life under political correctness, and now they were to be hurled onto the burning altar of Moloch, god of equality and diversity, like so many others during the past century. No mercy, no appeal, just down the tubes. It was a quintessential American experience.

Once they got past Madison, Eli pulled off at a rest stop. The stop itself was long closed, due to some long-forgotten round of state or federal budgets cuts, but people still used it anyway to rest and to dump their garbage in a large landfill pit someone had dug out of the ground. There were several other vehicles pulled over in the parking area, all of them white motorists, fortunately. Eli was in no mood to deal with nigger or Mexican bullshit at the moment. The way he felt right now, if any of them approached him to beg or Mau Mau or steal, Eli probably would put a bullet in the shitskin’s head from the .45 he kept in the small of his back. The gun had killed twice in the past 24 hours and Eli no longer cared if it killed again, just so long as it killed someone with dark skin. He had finally been pushed beyond the point of caring.

The toilets and sinks were no longer functioning in the restrooms, which were supposed to be locked, but someone had broken down the doors, and people had been using the facilities anyway. In the summer heat, the stench inside was so powerful that the family all went off into the woods to relieve themselves. Then they had a breakfast of sorts, consisting of whatever immediately comestible items Lorna had found in their kitchen cupboard back in Cicero. This included several candy bars, a can of dried apricots, half a can of dried plums, several cans of Vienna sausages, and some cold pop-tarts washed down with cans of soda. 

“Okay, it’s time we all got some rest,” decreed Eli. “The women and Tommy make themselves a bed in the back as best they can, Eddie and me will sleep in the front. It’s probably best we do most of our traveling at night anyway.” 

They pulled into the most removed parking area in the rest stop and settled down for a few hours of restive, disturbed sleep. They were all awake by six p.m., and five-year-old Tommy was finally starting to get cranky. Millie kept him quiet by sharing a hand-held video game. Eli, Eddie, and Lorna looked at the road map of the United States he had brought, spread out on the side of the van.

 “We need to make our decision on where to try and break through the border,” said Eli. “We’re coming up to the fork in the interstates.” 

“Wyoming is the closest,” said Lorna. 

“Hey, maybe Dad and I can become cowboys,” suggested Eddie with a faint smile on his lips. 

“Agreed,” said Elias with a nod. “Wyoming is the closest, but for that very reason it will probably be more closely watched by the military and the security agencies, since I-90 is the quickest route there from the Midwest. If we take I-90 and head west, we’ll go through South Dakota’s Black Hills country and hit the Wyoming state line, or what used to be the state line, in about 20 hours, depending on traffic, which would be great if we were tourists on vacation and we were taking the scenic route. But we’re not, we’re refugees running for our lives. Wyoming is technically one of the states handed over to the Northwest Republic by the Longview Treaty, yeah, but from what I can remember from the TV and internet news, it’s still pretty wild and woolly out there, with some fighting still going on between the new white government and American forces, and also some of the local people who want to stick with the United States. We don’t need to go driving right into a war zone where we might get shot at from all sides. Also, I drove down 90 once, and I remember those badlands out there are really barren. I mean it’s like you’re on the fucking moon. We might run out of gas a hundred miles from the nearest help.” 

“So where, then?” asked Eddie. 

Eli pointed to the map. “If we head north from here and we get onto I-94 west, we’ll go through North Dakota and eastern Montana until we get to West Montana, or whatever the Northwest Republic calls it now it’s their part of the state. There are some cities we’ll have to go around, Fargo, Bismarck, Billings and Bozeman, and that might get a bit hairy with cops watching, but it also means we can get gas there and maybe a little food. The trouble is that at some point, most likely around Bozeman, the troops and cops will start getting really thick, and we’ll need to get off the interstate and try taking the back roads around any roadblocks. That’s where it will start getting funky. But the best aspect of using the northern route is that unlike Wyoming, in Montana there’s a clear border, Interstate 15. I don’t know if the highway itself is still being used by traffic at all, but once we’re on the western side of it, we’re in the Republic and home free. It’s a finish line in this race for our lives, something we can shoot for.” 

“Let’s go north and try for Montana, then,” said Lorna. “I know the angels will help us, but we should also help ourselves as much as we can.” 

Before sunset, they pulled off at one exit and found a roadside market, one of the many unofficial bazaars that had sprung up across the United States in the past few years that paid protection to assorted cops and local authorities to be allowed to trade without licensing or regulation. Most of these markets were run by Middle Easterners, and they specialized in selling discontinued stock, or big box discounts, or whatever the current term was for stolen goods, especially cheap processed and canned food items, since food had become so expensive. The Horakovas were able to replenish their supply of Vienna sausages, beans, several boxes of crackers, and a block of processed cheese food one of the dusky Hindu traders had in an ice cooler. At Eddie’s recommendation, Eli also bought a cheap burner cell phone that had the capacity to receive netcasts from CNN, Fox, and the major news networks. All the Horakovas had their own phones, but Eli had forbidden their use and removed their circuit cards with the federally mandated built-in GPS microchip, lest they be used by the Chicago police or the FBI to track them down. Then they were back on the road.

They cut their available funds almost in half filling the van’s gas tank in St. Paul. They were now about eleven hundred miles from Butte, Montana, a town split down the middle by Interstate 15. “In theory we should be able to get one more fill-up and make it,” said Eli. “We could, if we were just driving down the interstate, like you could before all the trouble. Technically speaking, the Northwest Republic begins at Exit 227, where I-90 runs into 15. But there’s no way they’re going to just let us pull off and check into the nearest HoJo’s.” 

Then began the long trip down I-94 through the darkness, through Minnesota and then across the broad, flat expanse of North Dakota. The silence in the van was broken only by the newscasts that Eddie found on the new disposable cell phone and put on speaker. He would try the Chicago internet stations for a while, to see if there was any news about what they had left behind in the house on Kildare Avenue, and then he would scan for news items or anything to do with border conditions ahead. “As near as I can tell from the news, the barbed wire and the barriers and the minefields are all on the American side, so once we actually get into Northwest territory we should be safe,” said Eddie. 

“After Billings we have to get off the interstate and find a way to get to I-15 by back roads, at night, and then cross over without being detected,” Eli said.

The Horakovas noticed there were a lot of headlights all around them, almost all of them heading west. “I wonder how many of the people in these other cars are doing like we’re doing and trying to get into the Northwest Republic?” asked Eddie.

 “Quite a few of them, I suspect,” replied Eli. 

“Maybe we should all form a wagon train together like the pioneers did back in the old days,” suggested Eddie. 

“That’s not a good idea,” said Eli. “Those assholes in D.C. admit they’re monitoring traffic on the interstate from satellites in space, and at some point down the line here, the cops and the military are going to start straining out anybody they think might be trying to leave the joys of the so-called greatest nation on earth for someplace where niggers don’t come into your house and try to drag your daughter away. We have to get as close as we can to the border and find a place where we can cross without being noticed. Eddie, ride the internet on that thing, and see if you can get some idea of what’s going on in the border area, what kind of trouble we might be running into.” 

Finally, as the dawn broke, they crossed the state line into the plains of eastern Montana. Eddie and Millie and Lorna stared out the windows of the van at the vastness of the land under the rising sun; they had never been farther out of the city than the Forest Preserves, and they had never even imagined that such a huge amount of space uncluttered by brick or asphalt or concrete could even exist. “It’s all empty,” whispered Millie, staring out the back window of the van. “How are we going to find the Northwest Republic in all this?” 

“Imagine what it was like a hundred-and-fifty years ago when the first pioneers were walking across these plains with Conestoga wagons pulled by mules and oxen,” said her father. “A lot of white people have made this trip before us, Millie. We should have made it ourselves, long before we were forced to. Then we wouldn’t have to be doing it now, like this, on the run and with only the shirts on our backs. I remember once, many years ago, I looked at one of the old Party web sites and that old guy was trying to tell people just that. I didn’t listen then. I wish to hell I had.” 

Their first problem came that afternoon outside Billings, when they were pulled over by a Montana State Highway Patrol officer. Eli looked up and saw the flashing LED lights in his side mirror. He pulled over to the shoulder of the interstate. A tall white state trooper, about 30 years old, got out of the unit and walked up to the driver’s side of the van. His name tag read Cornwell. “License and registration, please,” he demanded laconically. 

Eli produced them; fortunately, the registration on the van was up to date. “What’s the problem, officer?” he asked, acutely aware of the cold metal of the .45 pressing into his back underneath his shirt. 

“Where are you headed, Mr. Horakova?” asked Trooper Cornwell. To Eli’s surprise he pronounced the family name correctly, the first time. 

“We’re on vacation,” said Eli. “We’re going to get on I-90 going south at Billings and drive down to the Little Big Horn to see the monument there. Where Custer fought the Indians. Pardon me, the Native Americans.” 

“I’ve heard of it, yes,” replied the highway patrolman in a dry tone. “I’m just going to issue you a warning this time, Mr. Horakova.” 

“A warning for what?” asked Eli. “You still haven’t told me what law I’m breaking, officer.”

“The law of self-preservation,” said Cornwell. “My warning to you is to quit being so fucking stupid, because you’re going to get yourself and your family killed. You’ve got what looks like everything you own packed in this vehicle, and all of you have that blank poker face that any cop learns to recognize in his rookie year, the face that’s a dead giveaway that you’re up to something, and we both know what. You’re not going down 90 East to commune with the spirit of Custer. You’re going to get on 90 West, but you’ll never make it. A few miles down from here, just after Billings, is where the army and the FATPO checkpoints begin, and if you try a moronic story like that with some of those men, they will drag you all out of the vehicle and shoot you through the head, including the little boy. It’s happened before, and there is not one damned thing the Patrol or anyone else can do about it. Actually, by this time next week, anyone using any interstate highway at all in eastern Montana will need a permit. They can enter and exit only through checkpoints, and they have to file a trip itinerary with somebody, don’t know who yet. New regulation from the highway czar in Washington, D.C. The government of the United States is a wounded animal, Horakova, the most dangerous in the world. My warning to you is to turn around and head back to Chicago.” 

Something made Eli decide to take a chance, or maybe he had just run as far as he was inclined to run. “We can’t go back,” he told the state trooper in a level voice. “Not ever.”  

“Why not?” asked the cop.  

Eli jerked his head toward the back of the van where the kids were hunkered. “That’s my son, Eddie. He’s sixteen. That’s my daughter, Millie. She’s thirteen. Two days ago, a nigger carrying a gun and a semi-official badge from the Cicero Neighborhood Watch walked into my home and tried to take Millie by force down to their clubhouse for a little rape and sodomy session. Eddie shot him dead. Originally the idea was for Eddie to try and make it Northwest on his own. My father was crippled, confined to a wheelchair, and suffering from massive kidney failure treatable only through dialysis, so we couldn’t bring him with us, and I refused to leave him there at the mercy of those black and brown animals. That night, my father stuck a gun into his mouth and blew his own brains out. He did it to lighten our load, so all of us could make this trip together. We’re not going back, Mr. Cornwell. Now do whatever the fuck you think you gotta do.” Eli didn’t mention that he had the .45 and Eddie was packing Rico Tubbs’ Glock. He figured the cop could fill in the blanks for himself. 

The trooper looked at the ground and sighed. “Jesus!” After a while, he looked up. “Okay, listen good, because I’m only going to say this once. You folks have to get off the interstate. I mean it; do not try to get past a checkpoint looking like you do. They will read you like a book. The McCurtain isn’t just a fence, it’s a whole network of obstacles and checkpoints and surveillance and patrols covering hundreds of square miles on this side of Interstate 15, and you’re about to run right into it. Last I heard, the first FATPO roadblock is around Park City somewhere. You need to get out of Billings and take the northbound exit at Laurel. From there take County road five thirty-two up to Broadview, then get on state Highway Three going north. Then when it runs into Highway Twelve, head west. There are still a lot of patrols and helicopter surveillance even on Twelve, but it’s a big country out there. On the interstate you have no chance at all.” 

“We got a pretty good map,” said Eli. “We’ll find our way.” 

“Twelve will take you right into Helena, or the American half of Helena, but don’t do that,” Cornwell told them. “The American sectors of Helena and Butte are crawling with Fatties, military police, FBI, and Blackwater contractors that the Anti-Defamation League and the Southern Poverty Law Center have hired as bounty hunters to stop white people from entering the Republic. A lot of people have been killed in the towns, trying to climb over the barbed wire or tunnel under the fence to get into the NAR sector. The Blackwater goons and the FATPO both just shoot to kill. The FBI likes to arrest refugees so they can torture them, waterboarding and the electric chair and the bath of flies, the whole nine yards. For God’s sake, don’t let the Bureau catch you! They’ll make your kids watch. They have been publicly defeated and humiliated by white men, and they are out of their minds with rage and hate. If you absolutely must surrender to anyone, try to make it local police or the MPs, although some of them are just as bad. Lotta Mexicans. Your best bet is to get a few miles away from Helena in either direction. Helena’s smaller and there’s fewer hostiles in that area. Then find some back road that will get you right up to the fence along the American side of I-15. You’ll have to cut through, but be careful. Some sections of the fence are electrified now.” 

“They’ve got the whole interstate fenced off?” asked Eli. 

“Yeah,” said Trooper Cornwell in disgust. “For fifty years they couldn’t put up a fence along the Mexican border to keep illegals out, but when it’s a matter of keeping white people in, they can build the McCurtain and fence Montana in half, in nine months. Go figure.” 

“We got bolt cutters,” said Eddie from the back.

 “When you get to the fence, be careful,” said Cornwell. “There are minefields in a lot of places leading up to it. Some of the minefields are posted with signs, some aren’t, and sometimes they’ve got the signs up but no minefield. I can’t give you any advice on where to try and break through. I don’t know that part of the state well.”  

“Why not come with us, and cross over with us?” suggested Lorna. 

“Can’t,” Cornwell told her. “I have to keep my nose clean. My ex-wife and my two kids are living in Pittsburgh.” 

“Oh, they wouldn’t…

 Cornwell cut Lorna off. “Oh, yes ma’am, they would,” he said bleakly. “They would indeed. We got a memo that made it very clear. That’s all I have to say, except I still advise you to turn around and find some way out of your problems besides heading west. You’ll probably be dead by this time tomorrow. Forget you ever saw me.” Cornwell turned and stalked back to his patrol car. 

“Was that an angel, Mommy?” asked Tommy.  

“Maybe,” Lorna told him.  

“No, son,” answered Eli. “That was just a good man who has been placed in an impossible position by this hellish country and this sick society we live in. Just like us, son. That seems to be America’s specialty, destroying everything that’s good in it. It’s been going on for a hundred years now. Those people on the other side of that fence are trying to fix what’s broken in the world, and that’s why we have to get there.” Eli pulled the van back onto the interstate. 

They got lost only once following Cornwell’s directions, and by midnight, they were coming into Helena on Highway 12. They passed a mileage sign that said Helena 14.  “How’s the gas, Dad?” asked Eddie. “We’re pretty much out of money.”  

“The dial shows we got about a quarter tank left,” said Eli. “Better than I thought we’d do. We need to get off this highway. We could start running into military patrols or those private goon squads the cop mentioned any time now. This is where the dangerous part begins.” He chose a side road at random and exited. A few miles down the road he pulled over into a stand of pines and killed the engine and the light. “I’m going to put the gas from the jerry can into the tank,” he said. “That ought to do it for us, for better or worse. Give me a hand, Ed. Bring the funnel. You girls get out and stretch your legs. Hang onto Tommy’s hand.” They carefully drained the fuel from the can into the gas tank, and Eli tossed the empty can into the trees. He looked up at the star-filled sky. “Guess I know now why they call it Big Sky Country. Let’s see how much I remember from my army map and compass training. That’s the North Star, so we need to keep on moving west, in that direction,” he said, pointing down the road. 

“Dad!” said Eddie. “That sounds like a helicopter!”

“Get away from the van!” commanded Eli. “They may have infrared tracking equipment, which means that hot engine will show up like a Christmas tree on their scope!” 

The family moved off at a trot up a small hill and lay down behind it, almost a hundred yards from the vehicle. A helicopter slowly settled down into the air over the little pine grove, hovering, and then a spotlight beam snaked from the chopper’s belly, weaved around for a bit, and found the parked van. Eli couldn’t see any markings at all on the chopper. It seemed to hang in the air over the van below it for a long moment, like a scientist studying a specimen under a microscope, and then a chain gun opened fire on it in a stream of lead and tracer bullets. The van’s gas tank exploded and a ball of fire rose into the sky, singeing the pine needles on the trees and hurling burning debris all throughout the stand. Then the copter rose lazily into the air and ambled off back into the sky. 

“Those stupid assholes set the woods on fire,” said Millie, staring after them. “They just don’t care.” 

“They wouldn’t have cared if we were in it,” said Eli. “Maybe they thought we were.” 

“They didn’t even try to find out,” whispered Lorna, horrified. 

“They probably have a quota of white people they have to kill every week, like cops have a quota of speeding tickets,” said Eddie. 

“Oh, Eli, everything we had in the world was in that van!” cried Lorna in despair. 

“No, honey, everything we have in the world is right here. Tommy, are you okay?” asked Eli, reaching over and giving his son a hug. 

“Bad men,” said Tommy calmly. 

“Yes, son. Very bad men.” 

“Now what?” asked Lorna. 

“If I remember the map right, I figure we’re about three miles from Interstate 15,” said Eli. “We walk. We have to stay on the road because if we blunder around in the woods we’ll get completely lost. It’s risky, but we have no choice. I’ll go first, then Eddie. Eddie and me will take turns carrying Tommy. Lorna, you and Millie follow us, and hold hands, to make absolutely sure you don’t get separated. If somebody comes and I yell move, we get off the road and hide about twenty yards into the woods. We stay together at all times. Now let’s go. Millie’s right, those stupid bastards have probably started a forest fire here, and we need to clear out. Maybe it will serve as a distraction, although again, I think Millie’s right. They don’t seem to care what they do.” 

The family began walking down the road, away from the burning trees and the smoke. There was no moon, but the sky was clear and the stars overhead were bright enough to illuminate the two lanes of asphalt in a thin, ghostly light. Every now and then, they passed unpaved access roads gleaming white in the half-light, leading off to the right or the left, and occasionally darkened houses and mobile homes on either side of the road, none of which seemed to be occupied. Twice vehicle headlights appeared, once behind them and once in front, and they scuttled off the shoulder and into the woods to lie in concealment in the scrub brush. The first vehicle was a private car of some kind. The second set of lights turned out to be a pair of Humvees containing men with M-16 rifles, moving slowly down the road. In the darkness it was impossible to discern any insignia or tell who they were, army, FATPO, Blackwater mercenaries, whoever. When they were gone Millie and Lorna took the last two small bottles of water out of their handbags and shared them around, making sure Tommy drank most of it. Then they trudged on.  

Even summer nights in Montana were cold, and all their warm clothing had been in the van. No one complained, and Tommy did not cry. Eli’s heart swelled with pride at his family’s courage and hardihood in the face of an adversity that Americans weren’t supposed to be able to meet any more. He began to get a glimmer of understanding as to how the rebels of the Northwest had done it, how they had thrown off the tyrant’s chains. At the very last minute, just before the darkness descended forever, something had awakened in the white man. Eli could see it now in his wife and his children. Freedom was near. They could all feel it, sense it.  

Eli had no idea how far they had walked, but at around three o’clock that morning they saw a glow of light ahead, and ten minutes later they were standing at a chain link fence looking down an embankment at Interstate 15 below. Now the McCurtain was literally a curtain of steel, through which they could actually see the Homeland. The roadside lights were still on, and they could see the empty highway below them clearly. “I remember from the news something they said about this border along 15,” said Eddie. “Technically speaking the border runs down the median strip. The northbound lanes are on the American side and only American official and military vehicles use it, otherwise you have to have a permit. The southbound lanes belong to the Northwest Republic and they let anybody use it who wants, just remember it’s at your own risk because of all the gun-toting federal goons on the other side of the road.” 

“I don’t see anybody,” said Eli. “Our bolt cutters got incinerated in the van. We have to find some way to get through the fence.” He looked up and saw a coil of razor wire at the top. “Climbing’s out. We have to find someplace to dig under. Let’s move along and see if we can find some kind of dip in the ground, but be careful. Remember what that state trooper said about land mines.” 

As they moved along the fence, searching the ground, Lorna said to her husband, “Eli, I don’t know if this makes it any better or not, but Stash was right. There is no way we could have made it this far with him along.” 

“I know,” said Eli. “It just pisses me off. I always accepted that one of the immutable facts of my life was that my father was an evil son of a bitch, and I was this really big man for turning the other cheek and taking him in, and not letting him die in one of those hellish state nursing homes. One of the few points in my plus column. Now as the last act of his life, Stash proves he was a bigger man than I’ll ever be. Damn him!” 

“You’ve got four other points in your plus column, Dad,” said Millie. 

“Thanks honey,” said Eli. 

“Dad, look here,” said Eddie, pointing. By the dim light of the interstate lamps, they could see a small, grassy ditch worn by rain water drainage, about two feet wide and two feet deep that ran under the fence. There was about a foot of clearance between the jagged bottom of the chain link and the ground

“We can enlarge this.”

 Eli and Eddie both had clasp knives on their belts. They attacked the sides and bottom of the ditch with the blades, breaking up the soil, for about five minutes at a time, and then they and the women clawed at the earth, burrowing the dirt away with their bare hands and throwing it aside. Then it was back to hacking away at the ground with the knives. “You don’t think this fence is electrified, do you?” asked Lorna.  

“I don’t hear any humming, and I don’t see any joint boxes or ceramic fittings or connectors,” said Eli. “We may have lucked out, honey. Just dig this out enough for us all to slip through, then we dash across the highway and we’re free. I doubt we’ll be the only white people showing up in the Northwest with nothing but the clothes on our backs. As long as Eddie and I can work, we’ll make it. But we have to get this done before the sun comes up. If anybody does see us, we’ll be sitting ducks in the daylight.”

 They dug away like lunatics, even Tommy helping to carry the soil, and slowly the hole under the fence grew bigger. It was on a downward slope, and so if they could just get the aperture beneath the fence deep and wide enough, they could get through. But dawn comes early in Montana in July, and by the time the hole was sufficiently enlarged, they could see without the need of the stars or the highway lights. “Okay, Millie first, then we hand Tommy through to Millie,” said Eli. “Then Lorna, then Eddie, and me last.” Eli was a large man, and the hole wasn’t quite big enough for him, and so for another five minutes he had to chop away with his knife and dig with his hands, but finally all five Horakovas stood erect in the dawn on the other side of the fence.

Lorna looked across the highway. The countryside there looked no different from what they had just left, scrubby brush and low stunted pines, but they all stared at it. “There it is,” whispered Eddie. “Free land. White man’s land. No niggers with guns from the Watch, no Mexicans, no junkies, no crooked cops beating us and robbing us, no Jews laying Dad off, no more of their goddamned laws and judges and creeps in suits telling everybody what to do and how to live. No more America.”

 “Let’s go,” said Eli. “Eddie, you carry Tommy.” They slid down the embankment, onto the shoulder, and stepped onto the highway, just as a convoy of armored vehicles came around the bend from the south. The lead vehicle was a black Humvee with a mounted M-60 machine gun; behind it was an eighteen-wheeler, and behind that a truck, carrying armed men in black fatigues. The lettering on the side of the Humvee said Blackwater. “They’ve seen us!” bellowed Eli. “Run!”

 The family’s sudden appearance caught the mercenaries by surprise, and they were almost across the interstate before the first machine gun and rifle bullets began snapping over their heads and cracking into the concrete. They leaped onto the soil of the Northwest American Republic and ran toward a small stand of pines, but the driver of the Humvee apparently decided to ignore little niceties like an international border, and the vehicle swerved across the interstate and pursued them. So close! Eli screamed in his mind. So close, and now these animals are going to murder my family for money! FOR FUCKING MONEY! 

He whirled, whipped out the .45, dropped down on one knee and carefully emptied the magazine into the oncoming Humvee that was plowing up the low hill after them, trying to hit the driver. He must have hit something, because the vehicle swerved and stopped, but the M-60 gunner opened up again. Eli remembered enough of Iraq to hit the dirt, roll out, then jump up running, throwing the empty gun away as he did so. 

He saw his family ahead of him, and they seemed to disappear. He reached the point where they had been and saw that they were down in a kind of ditch or gully. He looked back and saw that the body-armored mercenaries had de-bused from their truck and were running through the scrubby pines after them, fanning out. He jumped down into the wash and yelled “Come on!” to the others. “Eddie, gimme the Glock! I’ll hold them off while the rest of you get into those trees!” 

“Any last standing to be done, Dad, we do it together,” said his son. Eli realized that they were trapped in the dry wash. Surrounded by the enemy gunmen, the minute any of them poked their heads up they would be picked off. At least we’ll die in the Northwest Republic, he thought, bitter bile and rage rising in his throat. 

Lorna, Millie, and Tommy were huddled against the wall of the dry wash, their faces white with terror. All around them the mercenaries could be heard, shouting and firing their weapons, maybe even shooting at each other. The gunfire seemed to increase, the rattle of the M-16s mixing with a more hollow, popping roll of automatic fire. Goddamned Iraq all over again, thought Eli, and then something hit him. “Yeah,” he said out loud, puzzled. “Just like Iraq! Those aren’t just sixteens, those are AKs!” 

“What?” asked Eddie.  

The Horakovas heard the engine of a motor vehicle coming toward them, but from the western side of the wash. Then a man wearing tiger-stripe camouflage and a coal-scuttle helmet appeared over their heads about ten feet away, kneeling and firing a weapon Eli remembered as an MM1 revolving grenade launcher. The shield on the side of his helmet was blue, white, and green. The soldier fired again and again, and they could hear the explosions as his projectiles slammed into the targets. Then a camouflaged Humvee drove into sight behind the soldier, on which was mounted a Browning .50-caliber machine gun, the muzzle spitting fire and thunder back and forth. For another minute there was shooting and shouting and then it all died away, leaving behind an eerie silence. 

A man got out of the Humvee and walked over to the wash, where the Horakovas stared up at him. He was tall, and despite his light amber beard he seemed little older than Eddie. He wore tiger-stripes and a peaked Alpine cap, and on the cap and over his right shirt pocket was an eagle and swastika. He carried a Kalashnikov rifle on his hip, the sling over his shoulder. On one collar tab was a single black first lieutenant’s bar, and on the other were the black embroidered letters NDF. “You folks okay down there?” he called. “Anybody need a medic?”

Eli looked at his family. None of them seemed to be hurt. “No,” he croaked, shaking his head.

“We were shadowing those apes along the fire road on our side back there, and we saw you make your break for it,” said the lieutenant. “Don’t worry, they’ve all skedaddled back across the highway.” He reached down, took Eli’s hand, pulled him up to ground level and said, “Welcome Home, comrades!

Eli Horakova looked down at his wife. “Lorna,” he said, “I think we’ve found your angel.”