Wednesday, May 31, 2017

HAC On Advocating The Forcible Overthrow Of The Government

(A Handy Guide for Ambitious U.S. Attorneys) 

According to 18 U.S. Code § 2385, “Whoever knowingly or willfully advocates, abets, advises, or teaches the duty, necessity, desirability, or propriety of overthrowing or destroying the government of the United States or the government of any State, Territory, District or Possession thereof, or the government of any political subdivision therein, by force or violence, or by the assassination of any officer of any such government” could face charges.

Really looking for that little gold star on your forehead from the bizarrely misnamed Justice Department, guys and gals? Wanna be the Captain Ahab of the federal judiciary who finally harpoons the Great White Whale fer sayin’ out loud that which he hadn’t oughter? Here's a handy-dandy road map for you.

*Do I advocate specific acts of violence against specific people or targets? No. There would be no point in my doing so. No one would respond. White people just don't have the chops for it. Anyone who did respond would be either a lunatic or an undercover federal agent.

*Do I say flat out "the government of the United States must be overthrown by force and violence?" No, because that's not the result I'm after. The result I'm after is a White ethnostate somewhere on the North American continent, almost certainly in the Pacific Northwest, but it's theoretically possible it could be someplace else. It's entirely conceivable that such a White ethnostate could come into being without the United States government being "overthrown" in the process, as witness the scenario in my Northwest independence novels.

I will say what I have said before. I am not threatening anybody. I am threatening everybody. I am saying straight up that the time has come when the end truly does justify the means. I am saying that the survival of the White race is non-negotiable.

I make simple observations about current events based on my knowledge of history, realpolitik, and human nature. I sometimes make predictions on future events, based on what has happened in similar situations in the past. So far as I am aware, I have never said or written anything that cannot be found a hundred or a thousand times over in as many books, speeches, films or videos, written and spoken by men who lived down through the centuries and who saw the same things I am seeing now, only in the context of their own place and time. It's just that I say these things out loud in front of the goyim, and right now our lords and ladies are a little jumpy about the goyim hearing things they’re not supposed hear, and gettin’ ideers in they heads.

I speak of the death of the king, which in medieval times was an oil-boiling offense. I am threatening to bring an end to the present corrupt and dysfunctional social order and bring about a resolution to the current crisis which will cause the wealth and power of the people now ruling us to be substantially diminished. This is indeed treason, but until things get even weirder than they are now, you U.S. Attorneys can't come right out and admit that's what's got your lords and ladies all hot and bothered. At least I don't think you can. Hell, maybe you can. I guess I'll find out.

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Radio Free Northwest - June 1st, 2017

HAC with a new installment of Who Guards The Guardians?  The return of Dry Ice Washington, and Andy asks an important question.

Saturday, May 27, 2017

The Science Fiction of Robert Heinlein

Robert Heinlein, long since deceased, wrote a number of very good science fiction works in the 1940s and 1950s, some of which do have some moral and ideological application to our situation. However, he was not "one of us," and one of his early novels, Rocket Ship Galileo, is extremely anti-NS.

I highly recommend the following:

*If This Goes On (first novelette as part of Revolt In 2100 trilogy);

*Glory Road (if you can find it; I believe it has quietly been allowed to lapse out of print because it was a bit on the anti-Asian side); 

*The Day After Tomorrow about a Chinese invasion of the U.S., Very good.

*The Puppet Masters is very very good, very definite political implications there.

I am a bit ambiguous about the book Starship Troopers because it is multi-racial, although fascist in outlook. It got the Left very up tight. Ditto The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress, which is Ayn-Randish but multi-racial and a bit feminist.

The following are excellent science fiction reads for kids:

Double Star;
Red Planet, about colonists on Mars;
Have Space Suit, Will Travel;
Farmer In The Sky, about colonizing Ganymede;


Stranger In A Strange Land - New Age type crap


Friday, May 26, 2017

National Socialism and Race Hatred

by David Myatt

The fundamental practical and immediate aim of National Socialism is to create a homeland for Whites only, where Aryans can live freely, express their unique cultural identity and live according to those principles of natural justice which alone can ensure the health and vitality of individuals and folk-communities.

National Socialism does not preach or teach any kind of racial hatred. It simply states the reality of Nature: that different races have different abilities and different needs. These different abilities - given by Nature and result of hundreds of thousands of years of evolution - cannot be changed by social programs, by political dogma or by enforcing dictatorial policies of racial integration which effectively undermine and destroy Western identity and culture. National Socialism desires the creation of a White homeland because it affirms that any other way of life is unhealthy, unproductive, against Nature, and leads to and encourages disharmony, strife and chaos.

The reality of National Socialism - as distinct from the lies ceaselessly propagated by its enemies - is that it is concerned primarily with the welfare and future of White people, and does not desire other races to be or become second-class citizens or slaves in a future National Socialist nation. Rather, it desires the complete geographical separation of Whites from all non-Whites as the only means of creating a civilized, harmonious way of life. 

Neither does nor would National Socialism encourage the genocide of other races - that is a lie (like the lie of the "Holocaust") ceaselessly spread by our enemies in order to discredit National Socialism and in order to brainwash White people into accepting anti-White and anti-evolutionary policies of racial integration. 

Instead, in its relationship with other races a National Socialist society, once established and secure, would encourage those other races to become aware of their own racial identity and uniqueness, so enabling them to create their own ethnic states dedicated to the well-being and advancement of those other races.

The present-day opponents of National Socialism are not other races, but those people, political parties, interest groups or governments that seek to undermineWhite identity and Western culture by pursuing social and political policies detrimental to White people. The enemies of National Socialism are those who oppose the creation of a Homeland, and those who oppose the racial principles and ideals of National Socialism.

Since National Socialism is an expression of the nobility of the Aryan, it represents all that is best, and thus civilized, about the Aryan. National Socialism is a conscious affirmation of those values which are central to civilized conduct - honor, loyalty and duty. National Socialism is also an expression of what it is to be human. It expresses the essence of our humanity, of how we came to be thinking beings [the evolution of races] and what is necessary for this evolutionary development to be preserved and extended. These things are race, and racial character as evident in the individuals of a particular race.

Fundamentally, National Socialism seeks to create a White ethnostate, and within that state the right social, political and spiritual conditions to enable civilized individuals to flourish. National Socialism seeks to encourage civilized conduct as it seeks to create a civilized way of life for Aryans. Accordingly, National Socialists champion and represent that noble idealism which is essential to civilization.

The primary concern of National Socialism is the Aryan - with creating a better future for our own. National Socialists are motivated by a genuine concern for their own people, their own heritage and culture. They wish to make their noble idealism real. They wish to inspire other Aryans with this noble idealism. This a positive, healthy and civilized.

National Socialism desires the White man to fulfill that unique destiny which National Socialism believes has been given to him by Nature.

This destiny - essentially the creation of a galactic empire - involves the White man and only the White man. It does not require the subservience of other races, or their destruction. It requires the creation, by Aryans, of a secure Homeland and then the creation of a truly Aryan way of living and thus the emergence of a new civilization greater than any existing hitherto.

The immediate aim of National Socialism is to make real for the majority of White people the goodness, the nobility, the hopes and aspirations which we hold in our hearts. Whatever our enemies may say, whatever their propaganda may express, this is the simple truth about National Socialism which they, for their own evil ends, are trying so hard, so brutally and so hatefully to suppress.

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Radio Free Northwest 5-25-2017

HAC talks about the ins and outs of practicing real freedom of speech, i.e. talking about things the regime doesn’t want White people talking or thinking about.

Monday, May 22, 2017

Thoughtcrime In Obama's America

Yes—despite the election of Donald Trump as president, this is still very much Obama’s America. Obama’s America transcends Obama himself, if you understand what we’re getting at. The liberal democratic power structure which has spent the past century embedding itself in American government and society is still very much entrenched. Even if Trump is sincere, and can even become somewhat effective, this is going to be Obama’s America for a long time.

We need to talk about language and the concept of thoughtcrime, which we’re sorry to say is a very real factor in 21st century American life. A racially conscious White man and a free man as well does not allow the present dictatorship to control or to command what we think or say or write, and that includes a number of forbidden words. You will hear on Radio Free Northwest and read in our publications that the Party  routinely uses words like nigger. kike, beaner and faggot. We use these words specifically because our lords and masters have forbidden us to do so, because the Jewish and liberal ruling élite does not want men and women of our race to use these words, and whatever the régime wants White people not to do is something, then we are under a moral obligation to do as often as possible.

This isn’t quite as simplistic or infantile an assertion as it sounds. There is hard reasoning behind it. I know we keep telling you guys to sit down and read big, thick books, but if any of you haven’t read George Orwell’s historic novel 1984, we recommend in the strongest possible terms that you obtain a copy and do so immediately. Even though the novel was written in 1948, it’s timeless. It explains much about the world we live in today.

When you get your copy of 1984, start with the appendix at the end of the book which discusses something called Newspeak. It’s an essay on the use and perversion of language in order to control thought, and it is even more applicable today that it was 60 years ago when it was first written.

Long story short, it’s not racial insensitivity or hurting the poor little monkoids’ feelings or anything like that which are the régime’s concern. The wealthy and powerful liberals and Jews who run this society don’t give a rat’s ass about some street nigger’s hurt feelings. What the liberals want to do is to control our very thoughts, by making us so afraid to speak certain words out loud for fear of economic retaliation, in Europe fear of legal punishment, or fear of psychopathic black violence, that we censor our own selves so effectively that we don’t even think such words—or think about the concepts and the ideas of racial difference and White superiority that those words convey.

The empowered liberal and Judaic élite in Western society doesn’t only want us afraid to say nigger, they don’t want us to even think nigger, or be able to think it. The wealthy liberals and Jews who rule us don’t want White people to think any thought that contradicts what we are taught in our politically correct classrooms, loony-left universities, or our state-controlled liberal media. The régime does not want White people to have in their minds words which can even so much as formulate forbidden thoughts, never mind express them. The long term goal, as stated in Orwell’s 1984, is to make so-called thoughtcrime impossible, because we will lack even the language necessary to formulate forbidden thoughts in our minds.

It is absolutely essential that White people break through this thought control process and recover true freedom of speech and thought, and that first and foremost represents the freedom to say nigger and kike and faggot. Because you see, the liberals who rule us are not just vicious and evil, they are wrong. 

There is no such thing as an “African-American.” There is no such thing as a black person—the term “person” implies an equality with White people which does not in fact exist anywhere in the real world. They are not people, at least not in the same sense that we are. They are a more primitive and rudimentary species of the genus homo than White people, true, but they are biologically and genetically different in many more important ways other than skin color. Skin color is merely the most obvious of racial differences; the most significant  ones are genetic.

Negroes have inborn differences from White people that cannot be altered, including among other things lesser intelligence, lower cognitive skills generally, and a brain incapable of developing moral thought to the same level as White people. One example is their inability to empathize with anyone outside their own immediate family grouping. It is no accident that all cannibalistic cultures in Africa and Papua New Guinea are black-skinned. On the other hand, it is significant that the green eco, tree-hugging movement is entirely White. White people are the only humans on the face of the earth who seem even to care about the environment.

These are not “black people,” they are niggers, and they know it even if we don’t. Why do you think they call themselves nigger all the time? They don’t respect themselves, so why should we respect them? Then again, we don’t respect ourselves either, since White people won’t fight for what we have and we let them do us such terrible harm, while we cower in a corner like whipped dogs, so why the hell should anyone respect us?

There is no such thing as a “gay” person. There is nothing gay about filthy and unsanitary perversions that spread loathsome diseases. The word homosexual is simply a descriptive term for certain unnatural sexual acts; it does not describe the people who commit those acts. Those people are faggots, queers, bugger boys, dykes, and other terms I won’t use but which are more colorful and descriptive. To refer to these people as gay or homosexual or without any pejorative wording at all is to imply that they and their perversions are somehow acceptable in civilized society. They are not.

You see what I’m getting at? White people and the defenders of Western civilization have to stop letting the enemy define the parameters of discussion and determine what is and is not acceptable by way of thought and language. We need to force that power out of the hands of the liberals and their media and their law, and back into ours. There are a lot of things we need to force out of the hands of the globalists and back into our own.

That’s another thing; we need to be free to at least think in those terms, to encompass in our imaginations the concept of liberals and Democrats and the government being forced to do things, being compelled to change their behavior, and being punished for what they have done in the past, and I don’t mean by being scolded on blogs. 

The thought is father to the deed, as liberals know full well. If we are free to think disrespectfully of minorities and perverts and the system itself, then it’s only a matter of time before we start thinking about other things. And that’s what they’re really terrified of. There is nothing that frightens a Jew or a liberal more than a White man whose mind is not under their control.

Let’s get your mind out of control, shall we? Contact the Northwest Front today. It’s time we got this show on the road. The genetic and demographic clock is ticking and we need to take heed. Otherwise a century from now, there will be no one remaining on earth who looks like us, and North America will resemble either a Chinese ant farm or Brazil.  We know what we’re going to do now, so let’s get on with it.

Sunday, May 21, 2017

Northwest Front Recommended Listening List

Greetings, Comrades:

The Idabro has updated his Recommended Listening List viz specific episodes of Radio Free Northwest and other audio and video. It is very long, too long really for this blog, and is now available in .pdf format from


Saturday, May 20, 2017

Secret Federal Court Dockets On Clandestine Decisions

Hello all:

Here at USP-Marion, there is a certain type of lunatic "sovereign citizen" who claims that there is a "secret docket" in which all of the decisions that show that we really are being held because our straw men are being sold on the stock market are kept.  Those decisions, of course, are never published -- part of the conspiracy -- and thus one has to know the secret formula or the magic words to access them.

While the "sovereign's" logic is entirely wrong, I am increasingly finding that these conspiracy theories about secret dockets and unpublished opinions are correct.

First, there is the mandamus action that I filed in the Third Circuit to unseal the docket and case number of Joshua Caleb Sutter, one of the federal informers apparently involved in framing me. There is good case law in the Fourth Circuit stating that the United States does use secret dockets to conceal the cases of informers that it later assigns to certain deep cover intelligence activities, a practice that the Fourth Circuit found unconstitutional in 2013.  In Sutter's case, I am able to bring the motion only because the clerk who sealed the criminal case failed to seal the related magisterial proceeding, allowing me to prove that I am not insane, and that a secret sealed docket case exists.

However, the thing that is bothering me today is the way that LEXIS-NEXIS chooses to report orders that are absolutely not secret. It does seem intended to limit the ability of a prisoner litigant to figure out exactly how to bring an action in federal court.

For instance, over the past few years I have won several cases against the dictatorship and won many, many more orders of various sorts. I won the case of Daniels v Owens in the Northern District of Illinois, a 2241 case about the constitutionality of the Bureau of Prison's halfway house escape policy. Mr. Daniels was released from custody about a year earlier than the BOP wanted as a result.  I also won United States v Davis, in which the United States dropped several charges against Nicholas Davis on the grounds that his indictment was obtained by the use of testimony that had previously been adjudicated to be perjured in an Illinois state proceeding.  Davis was also released from custody as a result
(Technically Davis filed my pleading pro se, and his appointed counsel, who was refusing to investigate the issue, adopted the pleading that I wrote.)  

In the past few months, I defeated a government motion to dismiss my own 2241 in the Northern District of Illinois (case was transferred to the Southern District), and won the release of a protective order in the Western District of Virginia as well as a sealing order in the Eastern District of Virginia.  None of these opinions or orders have been reported.

Now, in fairness, four of those orders, or opinions, were obtained after the dictatorship conceded my (or my side's) entitlement to relief, and thus the order merely reflects that the regime's motion to grant me my relief was granted, sometimes in one sentence, sometimes in depth.  

However, on the other side, just about everything that I have been denied in the past year has been immediately reported on LEXIS-NEXIS.  Judge Conrad's erroneous denial of my first new trial motion in the Western District of Virginia, which he recently decided that he did not have the power to reconsider, though my second new trial motion really mooted the issue, was reported.  Judge Gilbert's erroneous decision in the Southern District of Illinois screening out my FTCA case was reported, though it is still pending reconsideration.  And now the two opinions denying my motion to sanction the U.S. Attorney in the Eastern District of Virginia for making deliberate misrepresentations to the court about the fact that their informant committed the acts that they attributed to me in the drawn out contempt proceedings in that court (which I eventually won on other grounds) have been reported.  The order issued the same day unsealing the sealed documents in that case, however, was not.

This kind of reporting double-standard really does feed the kind of paranoia that drives inmates to file frivolous things with the court.  Before I even knew that there was an update today, one of the con-men "sovereigns" (as opposed to the ones that really believe it) was interrogating me about why the various erroneous orders of last year haven't been reversed yet.  LOL.  He also thought that he would be released on tax day this year, and thinks that any proceedings can be wrapped up in six months.  

But the habit of only reporting orders that are unfavorable to an inmate on LEXIS-NEXIS is a real nuisance.  Originally, I thought that only orders terminating a proceeding were reported, but as I go, I see that erroneous interlocutory orders are reported, too -- when they are against the party adverse to the dictatorship.

I don't know what can be done about this.  LEXIS-NEXIS is free to report anything that they want.  But the exclusion from LEXIS-NEXIS of many orders favorable to prisoners really does make it seem that prisoners never win anything, and that no relief is possible through the legal system. 

While this is a legal fiction that I personally believe the dictator's servants encourage, as part of a general effort to interfere with prisoner appeals and lawsuits, it also feeds "alternative law" sovereign nonsense.  It seems to me that the courts have little to complain about when they get deluged with frivolous paperwork that they've encouraged.

-Bill White

Friday, May 19, 2017

Northwest Front Basics

The Northwest Front is a movement to establish a sovereign and independent Homeland for all White people here in the Pacific Northwest. 

This concept is based on the idea, fairly obvious by this point in our history, that any recovery of the entire North American continent all at once is now demographically impossible. It’s time for the White man to stop wasting time on endless dead ends that don’t work. The fact that you are in contact with the Northwest Front and that you are reading these words at all indicates that you probably already have some idea as to what we’re about, but I’ll do what I can to tell you about us in this short time available here.

It is a matter of the utmost urgency that you make this vitally important commitment to the future of our people, that you do so now, and that you come to the Northwest Homeland with only the minimum delay necessary to raise sufficient funds and put your affairs in order. 

The White race in North America is in danger of literal, physical extinction. If current destructive demographic trends continue, White people will be a minority in the United States and Canada by the year 2050, and we will have vanished completely from North America by 2100. The real point of no return, however, is far nearer in time. By the year 2030, the median age of the White population of North America will have become so high that we will no longer be capable of reproducing ourselves in sufficient numbers to overcome the tide of mud-colored Third World immigration which has been unleashed on North America by successive U.S. presidents, Canadian prime ministers, and a century of globalist political manipulation.

Radical dangers require radical solutions. Many White people placed their hopes in the election of Donald Trump to the presidency, but it didn’t take long for them to become disillusioned. Trump campaign promises such as the building of a border wall, the repeal of the catastrophic Obamacare, banning Muslim immigration, and the criminal prosecution of Hillary Clinton seem to have been forgotten. Instead, he is playing grab-ass with North Korea and apparently trying to provoke World War Three with Russia. For the first time in history, Jews are actually living in the White House, and several them are standing behind the president whispering in his ear, almost like some old cartoon out of Der Stürmer.

We have only ourselves to blame. We knew that Trump was as kosher as lox and bagels before we voted him in, and only the fact that his opponent was a kind of liberal Jabba the Hut in the form of a humanoid female persuaded many of us to vote for him. We chose the lesser of two evils; the trouble is that lesser evil is pretty damned bad and now we have to live with it. Or die by it.

We as a people have wasted the past six decades on pointless, futile and impotent right-wing and kosher conservative organizations and strategies. The overwhelming majority of these past organizations and movements refused to recognize the vital central importance of race in all issues, and they refused to recognize the urgent need for state power in order to preserve the existence of our race. 

We spent entirely too much time standing on street corners in laughably tiny groups holding signs and chewing on rubber chicken in rented motel banquet rooms with several dozen people at a time, most of whom were over 60. The result of the past decades of right-wing failure and impotence is that we are now out of time.

There is only one strategy remaining to us that may be able to secure the existence of our people and a future for White children. Our last remaining hope to stave off extinction is the establishment of a sovereign and independent nation on the continent of North America for White people only, where we can raise a few more generations in physical health, mental sanity, and moral safety. Considerations of demographics, economics, (such as the need for a coastline) and a history of commitment and martyrdom in the persons of Bob Matthews, Sam and Vicky Weaver, Richard Butler, Jeff Hughes, Edgar Steele, and many others, dictate that the territory for this sovereign White republic must lie in the Pacific Northwest.

The First Step To Freedom: Read Things

The first step toward the establishment of the Northwest American Republic is a mass migration of the existing racially aware White community to the states of Washington, Oregon, Idaho, and western Montana. Hispanics and Third World immigrants aren’t the only ones who can change demographics. The settlers in this mass migration must then form communities of responsible and functional-in-society White nationalists, people who live within half an hour’s drive of one another, and who regularly interact face-to-face in the real world as opposed to tapping or clicking on an electronic device.

The internet and social media, etc. are potentially invaluable tools for the establishment of this White ethnostate. They cannot replace human bodies with brave hearts and iron spirits.

You need to get hold of a copy of the Northwest Front Party Manual, which is called the White Book, and any other literature the Party can provide. If you didn’t get this material from the same source where you obtained this copy of NF Bulletin, go to and either contact us through the website, or else by direct e-mail at, and we’ll get that material to you. Or you can always write to the NF at P. O. Box 2188, Bremerton, Washington 98310.

In the White Book is a recommended reading list of books on all kinds of subjects, including race, political science, Communism, and the Jewish Question. There is also a section explaining about the five Northwest Independence novels.

The fact is that in order to fully understand what I am saying here, and in order to ask the right questions and get the right answers, you need to be familiar with a whole body of knowledge that White Americans are usually denied access to by the media and the public education system. 

The NF is in rather an unfortunate position, in that in order to bring you fully up to speed on everything we’re saying and convince you of the fact that we are right—and we are right, by the way—you have to sit down and read at least one or two big, thick books, and that’s a problem with 21st century White Americans. 

A large number of us, especially younger White people who were trapped in public schools as children, and whose parents could not afford to give them an actual education in private school, no longer have the ability, the concentration, or the basic literacy to read a long block of text for content. White people are kind of regressing into the past before reading and writing was invented, and we’re now reliant once again on pictures on electronic screens or in so-called graphic novels, rather like our prehistoric ancestors who drew pictures on the walls of caves.

The Party aren’t total Luddites. We are trying to adapt to audio and visual means of communication, hence our YouTube videos, DVDs and CDs, etc. We also have a weekly podcast called Radio Free Northwest, which can be downloaded from, but the fact is that the bulk of the knowledge you need to know, and which we need to try to make you understand, is contained in actual, physical books.

You’re really going to need to read these books, especially the Northwest independence novels. Those were written with the specific intention of answering every question anyone might come up with, in as much detail as possible. It’s really hard to give detailed answers to questions with people who haven’t read those five Northwest novels, because the answers you’re looking are almost all there, spelled out in much greater specific detail than we could ever give you in 25 words or less here.

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Casey Michel Interview

[Yes, I know this guy is as red as a London double-decker bus and he's part of the Clinton-left effort to incite a war with Russia. Unfortunately journalists at publications we really could use some coverage in never interview me, seeing as how us NF "extremists" are their competition. - HAC]  

From the perspective of a white nationalist, how would you assess the first few months of the Trump presidency? 

What you need to understand is that most of us, including myself, never drank the Trump kool-aid to begin with. Do not make the mistake of confusing the chatter of some kids and pretty silly people on Twitter calling themselves "alt.right" for some kind of serious movement. "Alt.right" and White nationalism are not the same thing, not by any means. We supported Trump as the lesser of two evils in order to save us from a catastrophic Hillary Clinton presidency, which would have meant the end of America in any recognizable form.

For the sake of argument, I'll grant Trump a certain basic sincerity of intention, which is questionable, but we'll let it pass. Trump's first 100 days was pretty much as I predicted it would be: he flailed and he floundered, and eventually the Zionist wing of the globalist movement as represented by Jared Kushner brought him more or less under control. He was balked and sabotaged at every turn by the Deep State and his own party, who are IMO plotting some kind of quasi-legal coup d'etat in order to overthrow Trump on 25th Amendment grounds or else collusion with the Democrats for some bogus impeachment. Ryan and his droids want to get Mike Pence installed in the Oval Office, where I gather he is so malleable that he will simply sign anything Ryan puts in front of him. 

Obamacare wasn't repealed because it is viewed as an entitlement now, and democratic (small d) politicians never repeal or take away an entitlement. His attempts to ban the entrance of Muslim murderers into the country have been blocked by liberal activist judges. These judges are not personally at any risk of being butchered by jihadists and who don't give a rat's ass about their fellow countrymen and women who are. Trump doesn't have either the balls or the muscle to defy those judges, and if necessary drag them down off their benches and beat them senseless to teach them some manners, so he's going to lose that one as well.

There pretty clearly isn't going to be any wall, for which he will presumably blame his fellow Republicans.

He dropped his promise to prosecute and imprison Bill and Hillary Clinton for their crimes and their breaches of human decency, which is what lost me insofar as he ever had me at all.

The two good things he has accomplished is numero uno, he got this Gorsuch guy confirmed to SCOTUS, so hopefully the Supreme Court won't become a total foil for the globalists and a weapon of outright genocide against White people as opposed to the creeping variety.

Secondly, he appointed Jeff Sessions as Attorney General. Sessions is reviving basic immigration enforcement, in the teeth of repeated attempts by the liberal judges to stop him, and at least the illegals are afraid of La Migra once again. At least the Border Patrol is no longer changing bambinos' diapers and giving busloads of illegals rides into the interior. 

What have white nationalists learned since Trump's inauguration, either about Republican leadership or overall support for white nationalist policies? 

We have learned not to trust democratic politicians, because we will be used and then betrayed at the first convenient moment. The Democrats have been doing it to the blacks and the Republicans have been doing it to us for decades, so this is something we should have known already, but what can I tell you? The purpose of democracy is to prevent change, and the Trump presidency is a living illustration of that.

 In conversations with other white nationalists, it seems Trump's first few months - especially as it pertains to things like bombing Syria, sidelining Bannon, and falling short in tax/health care reform - have been disappointing. What's been the most disappointing aspect of the Trump presidency thus far? 

Like I said, with me personally it was his refusal to indict, prosecute, and imprison the Clintons, but I repeat that most of us really didn't expect all that much. It's the babes in the woods of the alt.right who are sobbing and wringing their hands on Twitter about how that bad man Donald betrayed them and crushed their poor little snowflake spirits, and now they can never love again. For the first time in history, so far as I am aware, there are Jews actually living in the White House. Usually they always crept in by the back door to whisper in the President's ear; now Kushner does it over the breakfast table. The ascendancy of Jared Kushner merely formalizes an ancient arrangement; there have been hofjüden in Europe and in this country for many centuries.

In re Steve Bannon, will someone please explain to me how a former naval intelligence officer in the Pentagon who would have been vetted out the wazoo for Establishment bona fides and a former Goldman Sachs investment banker gets himself classified as a White nationalist?

What comes next for American white nationalists? 

Probably nothing, since we lack both the physical courage and the competence actually to do anything other than shitpost to the internet. When Trump goes and the Obamanables return to power, as they will, they will do so literally with a vengeance.

 There will be a massive left-wing purge from the internet, from American political and social life, and from the pop culture of anyone and anything even remotely to the right of center. Anyone who had anything at all to do with Trump or his election will be placed before some kind of Nuremberg-style kangaroo court and burned at the stake, rather like the old auto da fes of the Inquisition. The public punishment and abasement of White males whose minds are not under control will become even more state policy than it already is.

The "mainstream" liberal media must restore its monopoly of thought and information, that's priority number one, and all alternative media such as Breitbart, Infowars, assorted YouTube channels and websites etc. will be forcibly taken down. The SPLC is already targeting Andrew Anglin's Daily Stormer in an attempt to remove the site from the internet. 

So far the power structure has refrained from outright murder in all except a few cases such as Edgar Steele, Jeff Hughes, Seth Rich and Michael Hastings. When it's been done it was done subtly, at four in the morning with no witnesses around, or else behind locked doors. I am personally of the opinion that this policy will soon go out the window. We can expect bloodshed. The so-called "antifas" are carrying guns now. I suspect that if Trump cannot be removed any other way, the Soros crowd will simply have him murdered, under circumstances of suitably credible deniability.

What would you like to see come next for American white nationalists? 

I would like to see The Struggle That Dare Not Speak Its Name.  

How would you assess the quality of the current crop of white nationalism's most visible leaders? (Richard Spencer, Jared Taylor, etc.) 

I have been accused of "purity spiraling," in that I believe the White resistance should be represented by sexually normal, genetically Gentile and fully Caucasian White men, and a few extraordinary women, who are equipped with a basic set of fundamental moral principles. There should be no weird sexual, financial, or behavioral skeletons in their closets. In this I am rather a minority view in our community. More specifically than that I will not comment.

Have you noticed any kind of uptick in interest in white nationalism since Trump was inaugurated? 

Oh, yes, definitely. It began about a year ago when the election itself was heating up. The NF is getting a lot more website traffic, although it's hard to tell if that means anything, and we are getting a lot more requests for introductory packets. Again, most of those are looky-loos, which I get, but the interest is there.  

What are your plans moving forward, especially as it pertains to increasing your audience or the visibility of the white nationalist movement in the US? 

The Northwest Front plans to secure the existence of our people and a future for White children.

Monday, May 15, 2017

Radio Free Northwest - May 18th, 2017

HAC goes on a long Q & A about the economy in the Northwest American Republic.

Sunday, May 14, 2017

Freedom's Sons - Chapter 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.”